


maybe we found love (right where we are)

by Zayz



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Actor Louis, Alternate Universe, Brief Smut, Established Zayn Malik/Liam Payne, Famous Louis, Fluff and Angst, Happy Ending, Lots of Tragic Misunderstandings, M/M, Non-Famous Harry, Notting Hill AU, Pining, Side Kaylor, side Ziam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-03
Updated: 2017-04-03
Packaged: 2018-10-14 05:15:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 51,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10529676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zayz/pseuds/Zayz
Summary: “The fame thing— it isn’t really real, you know?” Louis’s smile is devastation, like porcelain cracked dead center. “I mean, it’s real in the sense that it has consequences, serious ones, but— but at the end of the day, don’t forget, I’m still…I’m just a guy. Standing in front of this extraordinary man…hoping to be loved by him.”Or: the Notting Hill AU where Louis is a famous Hollywood actor, and Harry is a bookstore owner who lives in a house with a blue door, and they get a lot wrong before they finally figure out how to get it right.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Despite writing a massive Music and Lyrics Larry AU last year, apparently I haven’t gotten the Hugh Grant out of my system yet, because here I am with a second Hugh Grant rom-com rewrite, this time in the form of Notting Hill. I’m so sorry for being the way that I am— but in my defense I didn’t ask for my brain either. C’est la vie.
> 
> I tinkered with this particular fic on and off while wrestling with my tortured, still-unfinished ballet AU, but somehow pulled a miracle out of my ass in honor of my dear friend and beta C, @pixiepunklovesdapperdork on Tumblr. She is grace personified, an incredible, intuitive, whip-smart, loyal, and exceedingly patient human being, whom I have somehow not scared away yet. C, thank you for randomly messaging me on Tumblr that one time and catalyzing one of the most important relationships in my life. And I promise your Nobel Prize, halo, and sainthood certificate are still en route; I’m on the phone with USPS about this ghastly delay.
> 
> -
> 
>  **VERY IMPORTANT CONTENT NOTE**  
>  This story is written in second person. Yes, that’s weird. In this fandom, second person is associated with Tumblr/Wattpad “imagines” and other kinds of cringe-y self-insert fan fiction. I know I’m probably the only person on the planet who loves second person, but hear me out for a sec.
> 
> Second person doesn’t have to be terrible. **The “you” in this fic is not the reader, but Harry** — so you’ll be experiencing the plot through Harry’s eyes in a much more intimate way than either first or third person allows. I also put great stock in the fact that I could not, no matter how hard I tried, get this story off the ground in any other POV; second is the only one that got my writer voice singing again (to the tune of 51k words in 5-6 weeks), and those who have read some/all of this story agreed that it came across better than they might have predicted on concept alone.
> 
> So, I know it might be weird and difficult to get into at first, but I implore you to take a leap of faith with me— and hey, maybe you’ll begrudgingly learn to appreciate the magic of second person! Stranger things have been known to happen. But if you really can’t stomach it, no hard feelings, either.
> 
>  
> 
> _Trigger warnings include brief homophobic language that is swiftly dealt justice, forced closeting and a forced out-ing, a bit of explicit smut, and more serious emotional atrocities than the relative fluffiness of a Notting Hill AU would suggest. The angst packs a punch (more than I’d intended) but I swear, I did keep the happy ending well intact!_
> 
>  
> 
> -
> 
> Writing is not a solitary sport. Many thanks to Rachel, @scholasticdreamer on Tumblr, for being so fantastically supportive of my crazy while I was writing this, and for stepping up to the beta plate for me so fearlessly; C gets a cleaner, more considered story because of you. Thanks as well to the usual suspects, Jones (@joneshowell) and Ari (@swallowsmateforlyfe), for valiantly suffering my late-night fic-related rambles and cheering me on even when I’m a crotchety grump. I’m only me because I have you, and that fact is never something I take lightly. All the love, always.
> 
> As ever, the usual disclaimers apply: this is a work of pure fiction, and is not meant to slander or offend any named celebrities in any way. What happens in fandom should stay in fandom, so don’t send this to anyone associated with 1D personally or professionally.
> 
> Have fun, play nice, and enjoy!

In the swirling, curling storm of desire, unuttered words hold fast  
With reptile tongue, the lightning lashes towers built to last  
Darkness creeps in like a thief and offers no relief  
Why are you shaking like a leaf?  
Come on, come talk to me

-

I can imagine the moment  
Breaking out through the silence  
All the things that we both might say  
And the heart, it will not be denied  
Till we're both on the same damn side  
All the barriers blown away  
  
-

_“Come Talk to Me,” Peter Gabriel_

 

 

  

It begins in your tiny secondhand bookshop in Notting Hill— an otherwise ordinary Thursday morning in June. Zayn is out back, taking one of his extended smoke breaks, while you stand at the register, pre-daily allowance of caffeine, chewing idly on a pen cap as you squint at your accounting records through a steadily building headache. The front door is thrown open wide in the hope of tempting a stray gust of summer breeze, though it’s still hot enough that your curls are damp and sticky at the back of your neck.  
  
The open door is the reason you don’t hear _him_ come in. The tinkling bell in the doorway that usually announces your visitors is silent, allowing him to slip in unnoticed.  
  
You only spot him when he clears his throat, apparently unconsciously, his face buried between the paperback covers of _A Tale of Two Cities_. But even faceless, he gives you pause— a soft brown fringe over his forehead, delicate hands, a small frame that manages to be graceful even while stationary. His gray button-up is pushed up to his elbows, his dark wash jeans clinging to admittedly well-shaped thighs.  
  
“You know, we got a hardcover edition of that one in recently,” you volunteer, perhaps too heartily, in the name of customer service. “Leather-bound, really lovely, and in excellent condition, if you want to see it.”  
  
The stranger lowers the book, revealing a thin face half obscured by aviator sunglasses. He raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t seem opposed to the suggestion. You put down your pen and rush to the window of the shop where the book currently sits on display. A midnight blue, engraved in sunset orange— the hard cover rough against your palm, but warm from the sunshine through the window. His fingers brush gently against yours as he accepts it.  
  
“It _is_ lovely,” the stranger concedes. His accent is American; his voice a high, pleasant rasp. “But if I buy it, what will you put in your window?”  
  
“I’ll think of something.” You wink conspiratorially, and a smile twitches at the corner of his mouth.  
  
He wordlessly turns his attention back to the shelf he was looking at, pursing his lips in apparent concentration. He cradles both versions of the book in the crook of his arm, his other hand in the pocket of his coat. He is as impassive as stone, his eyes covered by those glasses, but he has such a presence, somehow— a gravitas about him. The way he holds himself like he doesn’t want to be seen, despite the fact that he effortlessly commands the attention of the whole room, even if you are the only one in it. You just can’t help yourself.  
  
“We, er— we have quite the collection of Dickens, if that’s what you’re looking for,” you say. “We got in _Great Expectations_ , which is there, and an illustrated version of _Oliver Twist,_ which is in rather good condition as well. Is there a particular Dickens you wanted, or just _A Tale of Two Cities?”_  
  
He’s definitely biting back a smile now. “I’m just browsing. But I thought I might look for a gift for my mom.”  
  
“Then we’ve got Austen!” you exclaim. “Mums love Austen.”  
  
You rush past him, to the end of the bookcase by the wall, A for Austen. _Pride and Prejudice,_ a mustard yellow cover decorated with swans. _Sense and Sensibility,_ a faded blue cover. _Emma,_ a soft gray. You pull them out of their neat alignment, the stranger watching with a crooked grin.  
  
“This edition of _Pride and Prejudice_ is my favorite,” you admit. “If your mum’s read it, she’ll love it. And if she hasn’t read it, then she is long overdue to fall in love.”  
  
He chuckles softly, the sound strangely appealing. And then he does you the honor of finally taking off his sunglasses, balancing them in his fringe— revealing deep-set eyes, slightly far apart, a startling cornflower blue. His face comes together like pieces falling into place. It’s a face you recognize somehow, though you can’t quite place it. It tears right through you, turns your smile a little extra cheesy as you hold out _Pride and Prejudice_ towards him.  
  
He grips the book while it’s still in your hand, but leans in a little closer, giving you a whiff of expensive sweat. “I haven’t actually read _Pride and Prejudice_ myself,” he confesses, though his tone is playful. “Are you going to hold it against me?”  
  
“I think I’ll have to,” you tell him, braver than you feel. “It’s only one of the greatest novels in the English language.”  
  
“I saw the movie, though. The one with Keira Knightley?”  
  
“So you didn’t even see the right version.” You shake your head, place the book on top of _A Tale of Two Cities_ in his arms. “Whatever you do or don’t buy today, for your mum or otherwise, I shall have to insist you obtain a copy and educate yourself.”  
  
“I’ll consider it.” The stranger’s expression is thoughtful. He hesitates, like he wants to end the conversation there— but then he asks, “What do you like about _Pride and Prejudice?”_  
  
“Well...” You tug absently at the bracelets on your wrists, leaning back against the front desk. “I first read it when I was sixteen, when I was doing my A-levels. But I kept coming back to it, because I found something new in it each time I read it.”  
  
“Like what?” He sounds genuinely intrigued, eyes fixed steady and straight upon you. You clear your throat, try to ignore the heat in your cheeks.  
  
“Er— so, the prose, for one. It's so clever. And then thematic things, too. Like...the power of a first impression.” Your pause sounds significant, though you don’t intend it to. “She— she actually called it that, in her first draft. Austen. The title was originally _First Impressions.”_  
  
“All right, then, tell you what,” the stranger says. “I'll take two copies of _Pride and Prejudice--_ one for my mom, and one for me.” He puts the Dickens novels back on the shelf, except _A Tale of Two Cities_ , which he holds out to you. “And now you won't have to change your window display.”  
  
Your smile feels dopey even to you, as you cross the little shop, the wooden floor creaking underfoot, to return the book to its little display stand. He is standing at the register when you turn back around, one yellow covered and one blue covered edition of _Pride and Prejudice_ in your hands, but his attention seems to have been captured by the painting on the wall behind the register.  
  
“Who did this?” he asks with interest.  
  
You glance up at it too— a little meadow overflowing with flowers and butterflies. Pretty, but a rough sketch more than anything, meant to be a placeholder until you bought artwork to cover the otherwise disappointingly bare wall. Which, of course, you haven’t yet gotten around to, years after the fact.  
  
“It was Zayn,” you tell him. “My business partner. He paints.”  
  
“I like it. Although— this _is_ a bookshop, and they have to cut down meadows in order to make the paper to print books. Isn’t having that picture a bit like having pictures of cows and chickens up at McDonald’s?”  
  
Your mouth falls open. “They do replant the trees,” is all you can think to stammer, as you ring him up, the blush in your cheeks like high noon.  
  
But he's grinning for real now— a gift of a gesture, softening his whole face. “I’m sorry,” he chuckles, as he hands over the bills. You hesitate for a beat, trying to figure out if he means it. You smile cautiously, and offer him a bag for his books.  
  
The stranger nods faux-solemnly as he accepts it. He still seems so familiar— like you've definitely seen him somewhere before. But when you give him back his change, really _looking_ at those forget-me-never blue eyes, your brain comes up empty.  
  
“I hope you and your mum like the book,” you say softly.  
  
He pushes his sunglasses back to the bridge of his delicate nose, like a door shutting gently in your face. “Thank you for your help.”  
  
You wave uselessly, as he turns and exits into the busy high street. It's a beautiful day, but you can't help but feel a little forlorn, standing alone at the register of your quiet bookshop. The whole vast world, out there, and you, in here. The stranger, gone as suddenly as he came— and you realize that, like an idiot, you didn't even get his name.  
  
You blame the lack of coffee in your system— and seek to rectify the situation immediately.

\--

“You won't believe who was just in here,” you inform Zayn, once you have dragged him back inside to cover the register.  
  
“Really? Who?” Zayn sits down on his favorite stool, runs a restless hand through his half-bleached quiff.  
  
“That's the thing— I don't actually know for sure.” You twist an errant curl around your index finger. “I think...it might have been someone famous.”  
  
Zayn seems to struggle profoundly not to roll his eyes at you. He is your business partner, co-owns the shop with you, but he's also been your best friend since secondary school, and he knows how bad you are with faces.

Indeed, he so kindly reminds you: “This isn't like that one time you thought you saw Julia Roberts at Harrods, is it?”

“No!” Heat rises in your cheeks. “No, I think he was a real famous person.”

“And you couldn't have asked for his name like a normal person.”

“Well. No.” You chew unhappily on your lower lip. “And he paid in cash.”

“What did he look like?”

“Brown hair, with a fringe over his forehead. Really blue eyes. Couple inches shorter than me. Fit. Curvy.”

“White?”

“Yes.”

“Hmm. That only narrows it down to half of all famous people in the Western world,” Zayn says with a smirk.

You feel yourself deflate like a slashed tire. “I can't believe I didn't get his name.”

“Don't be too hard on yourself, Hazza. You always do go rather stupid when there's a beautiful man in the room."

Zayn thinks he's hilarious, beaming at you with such a wicked sparkle in his otherwise kind brown eyes— but he isn't wrong. It took you weeks during secondary to work yourself up to telling Zayn you liked the designs he drew all over his arms in Sharpie (this, of course, before he moved out of his parents’ house and got the real thing). You'd had such a monstrous crush on Zayn then, before you knew any better. You groan, bury your face into your hands.

“I'm going to get a coffee. Want anything?”

“Coffee for me too.” He considers. “And a scone.”

“Fine. See you in a bit, then,” you say, setting off into the sunshine.

\--

Notting Hill is your favorite part of London, a place you are proud to call home— a vibrant little village nestled in the midst of a noisy metropolis. The narrow, rambling streets are always clogged with stalls selling fruits, vegetables, pictures, knick-knacks. It’s like the London in picture books, with the neat, multi-colored row houses squeezed together over several blocks, the niche shops and colorful eateries, the couples with their babies in strollers, the teenagers roaming in clumps of three and four. And when the sun is out, like today, there’s no better place to be but in the streets of North Kensington, enjoying the warmth on your face as you nip around the corner to your favorite coffee shop, where your favorite barista, Leigh-Anne, begins making your order before you’ve fully walked through the door.

“How goes it, Styles?” she asks with a wink.

“Oh, the usual,” you lie. “Gorgeous day out, though.”

“I know, I can’t wait to get away from here. One for Malik too?”

“This is why you are the best barista in all of London,” you say, making her giggle. “And he wants a scone, too.”

You chat amiably with her for a couple of minutes about the weather, plans for later, as she makes the two coffees and warms up a scone. You leave her a generous tip on your way out, breathe in the rich scent of a good brew as you take your first sip. Your phone buzzes— Zayn, double-checking that you got the scone. You are in the process of simultaneously turning the corner and confirming the safe procurement of his baked good when you find yourself colliding straight-on with another body— spilling both scalding coffees over your blue t-shirt and the other person’s gray shirt.

“Shit, bugger, bugger, fuck, I am _so_ sorry,” you hiss in a rush, trying to ignore the sting on your chest as you pick up the empty coffee cups and your phone from the ground, save the scone in its paper bag.

“What the _fuck_ ,” the other man complains, exasperation tinged with pain. He is more concerned with tugging at the drier folds of his shirt, bending down to pick up the bag he’d been holding— but his voice sends a jolt down your spine.

Because it’s _him_. The stranger from a few minutes ago. Same blue eyes, now widening in surprise as they recognize you over his sunglasses. Despite the heat of the spilled drinks, ice grips your stomach, clenches it tightly.

“Hi,” you say, a bit breathless. “I am so sorry. Didn’t see you, total accident, my fault.” You stuff your phone into your pocket, dig your hand into the scone bag for a napkin to dab him with.

He jerks back as you attempt to catch a puddle of coffee in the crease of his shirt. “ _Fuck_ , I was just looking for my car— can’t remember where I parked it— this is just fucking perfect—”

“I can help you find it,” you offer. “Even better, I just— I live just over the street, you can use the bathroom to wash up.”

He eyes you warily. “What do you mean, just over the street?”

You gesture towards the next block. “That house, right there. I live in the one with the blue door.”

His expression is inscrutable again, sunglasses firmly in place, but he sees it. Of course he sees it. Zayn painted that door himself when he moved in with you— a vivid navy blue, unmistakable against the browns and pastels of their neighbors’ houses. It takes him a moment, but he relents, lets you lead him down the bustling street.

You used to share the house with Zayn, until Zayn moved in with Liam two years ago. You live here now with Niall, an Irish primary school teacher who you generally love but, at this moment, would dearly love to strangle, because it was his day to clean up around the kitchen and he hasn’t, leaving stacks of dirty dishes in the sink and on the counters, open jars on the already overflowing dining table, half a sandwich balanced precariously on top of a half-full yogurt container. You frown, biting down hard on your lip, as the stranger surveys the sight in front of him.

“It’s, er...not usually this unsanitary, but I was the one to do the bathroom yesterday, so you shouldn’t have a problem there,” you say, tone soaked in apology. “Up the stairs, top level, on the left.”

His sunglasses reveal nothing, but his lips twitch with that smile again, as he wordlessly makes his way up the stairs. But the moment he is out of sight, you immediately begin to tidy up as much as you can—  chucking garbage, turning on the sink, flitting around the kitchen like a nervous hummingbird trying to make the place look habitable, checking the fridge for food Niall hasn’t been able to ravage yet. Sadly, there isn’t much. You curse under your breath as you throw out a loaf of bread beginning to sport its own ecosystem inside the plastic.

The stranger presently descends down the stairs towards you, practically socking you in the gut when you realize he’s shirtless. He’s not wearing his sunglasses either; they are perched in his fringe, leaving you at the mercy of such an intensely blue gaze that your heart immediately freezes in place. He is lean and well-muscled, yet still soft somehow, waist curving gently in the faintest suggestion of love handles. His skin seems to be imbued with gold— far more color in him than the sickly paleness you routinely burn on the beach. Your face is warm as you behold him, hovering in the middle of the staircase.

“I’m sorry about this,” he says, tone business-like despite the slight smile playing on his mouth, “but I won’t be able to salvage my shirt. Could I borrow one off you?”

You blink a couple of times, but no, he’s not a mirage—just an absurdly, unfairly attractive man standing shirtless in your house. “Yes,” you say in an awkward rush, “my room’s on the second level on the right. Take whatever you want.”

“Thanks,” he says, and vanishes upstairs.

He comes back downstairs a couple of minutes later, now wearing one of your plaid button-ups over his own jeans. The shirt hangs loose on him, especially in the shoulders, but your breath catches in your throat anyway, seeing him in your clothes. His eyes sweep the slightly cleaner kitchen before landing back on you. That twitch of his smile— not quite a smirk, but restrained— seems to thaw the cool brilliance of his sharp eyes.

“I should go,” he says, making his way towards the entrance.

“Do you want help finding your car?” you ask, following him out.

“No. But thank you.”

“I could buy you another cup of coffee,” you continue. “Once Leigh-Anne sees my shirt, she’ll probably have a good laugh, but she won’t charge for refills. Or I could, um...I could make you a cup of tea here, if you like.”

“I don’t think that would be the best idea.”

He’s not unfriendly, exactly, but his tone feels final. He is a second away from putting his sunglasses back on, disappearing in plain sight. And you are mortified, because he is so clearly uninterested in anything you have to offer— but the fact remains, he is still here, facing you, and neither of you has opened the door yet. Strangely enough, he seems to be waiting to take your lead.

You take a deep breath, count to three in your head, and say, “I, um...I never did get your name?”

His expression flickers strangely— a slight frown, an incredulous almost-grin. Like he can’t believe you haven’t been in on the joke the whole time. The moment stretches uncomfortably, your heart suspended mid-air, mid-beat.

Finally, he says, “I’m Louis.”

“Louis.” The name tastes sweet on your tongue; the last syllable ends in a natural smile. “I’m Harry.”

You offer your hand to shake. He glances down at it, hesitating for a moment, but shakes. Your hand dwarfs his, but his grip is firm, his palm dry and soft.

You open the door rather unwillingly, bringing the two of you back to the busy street, the summer sun. The light does lovely things to the sharp cut of his cheekbones, the shadows in his eyes, the beginnings of stubble on his jaw. The stranger— Louis— puts the sunglasses back over his eyes, steps over the threshold.

“Bye, Harry,” he says.

You shouldn’t, but you linger against the doorway for an extra beat, smiling almost helplessly at his retreating back as he re-enters the stream of foot traffic. When you close the door, you almost collapse against it, wondering what the fuck just happened.

\--

You are still in the entrance a few minutes later, in the process of debating whether or not to change out of your hideously coffee-stained shirt to prove your integrity to Leigh-Anne when you ask her for two free coffees, when there is a knock on the door that nearly scares you out of your wits.

You’re just thinking about how you couldn’t possibly stand any more excitement today when you open the door to find— Louis. His sunglasses are in his hair and he’s breathing a little heavily, like he ran back here.

“Sorry,” he says, “Forgot something.”

Wordlessly, you open the door wider and let him through, listen to him thundering up the stairs. You can’t imagine what he could have forgotten, until he appears back in your entrance again, holding the bag from your own bookshop, containing the two copies of _Pride and Prejudice_ he bought not half an hour ago.

“Right, of course.” You chuckle weakly. “Yeah, can’t forget those. Going to change your life, that book.”

Louis smiles— a real one this time, unexpected, bringing a radiance to his face that stuns you.

“Thanks again, for your help,” he says.

You nod, because you can’t trust yourself to say anything more. The door is hanging open, ready for him to walk through, but Louis is still standing where he is, a searching sort of look in his eyes.

One moment, there is a gulf between you: opposite sides of the door, him, calculating, and you, speechless. The next moment, Louis’s hand is on the base of your neck, walking you back against the wall where the door can hide you, and his mouth finds yours.

It is, in truth, more awkward than romantic. You barely know each other; he took you by surprise; his lips are smashed up against your teeth and he’s frozen, almost, like he took himself by surprise too. But when Louis’s mouth moves, warming to the feel of you, the drag of his lips is tender. His fist clutches the curls at the nape of your neck, the pull against your scalp deliciously urgent. You stand stock still, your arms heavy and motionless at your sides as you cautiously apply your own pressure back. Actively commit this to memory, even as it unfolds.

He withdraws a beat later, eyes complicated. You can only gape.

“It, er.” Already, his voice sounds rough with regret. “It would probably be best...not to tell anyone about this.”

“Don’t worry,” you say softly. “I’ll tell myself sometimes, but...well, I won’t believe it.”

The lameness of the line is almost worth it, for the way it quirks Louis’s mouth up in a tiny smile.

Clutching his bag, he leaves your house for the second time, walking briskly down the block in the opposite direction of your shop— the shop you have to get back to, you know, you know, but there are still fireworks going off somewhere in your brain. Fireworks and flood damage, like everything is drowning and on fire simultaneously.

You shut the front door and lean against it, stand there for several minutes staring at your floor, wondering not for the first time today what the everloving fuck just happened.

\--

You do decide to change your shirt, in the end, and go back to Leigh-Anne, beg her for more coffee and a new scone. By the time you arrive back at work, Zayn is a dangerous mixture of concerned and outraged.

“You said you had my scone thirty-seven minutes ago, Styles, I was about to put out a missing persons report! It does not take thirty-seven minutes to walk round the corner!”

“I spilled it, right after I sent that text.” This, at least, is true. “I had to go home and change. And get new coffee.”

Zayn rolls his eyes theatrically. “Well, I’m glad you’re alive, at any rate.”

“Cheers.” You toast your cup in his general direction, take a moody sip.

Zayn is saying something else, about the weather maybe, but you’re not even listening, taking your phone out of your pocket and grimacing at the state of your screen, cracked from its fall earlier. But it’s all you’ve got, and you have some Googling to do.

Zayn, realizing his commentary is falling on deaf ears, decides he needs another smoke after the stress of fearing for your life today, and you leave him to it, grateful for the quiet.

\--

It doesn’t take you long to figure it out. And when you do, you promptly want to climb to the top of a tall building and wait for lightning to strike you dead— because the stranger in your shop and in your house today was Louis Tomlinson.

Louis Tomlinson: A-list actor, and current star of the upcoming dramedy, _Midnight Memories_ , which is premiering in Leicester Square in eight days.

You feel monumentally stupid for not putting it together earlier— that face, plastered on taxi cabs and city buses for weeks during the promotion of this movie. And for every other hit he’s been in over the last five years, many of which you’ve actually seen.

 _Louis Tomlinson_. Bloody hell.

You scroll dazedly through the millions of search results Google pulls up for you in a fraction of a second. The pictures, thousands of them, hundreds of thousands. The articles with their headlines, his on-again-off-again-but-currently-off thing with Eleanor Calder. It’s dizzying, being awash in all of the fame— the bigness of him. There is so much easy access to him, and his glamorous projects, his photographs and tweets— but there is also this uncrossable, unquenchable distance. A sense of powerlessness blooming in you, being just one more lonely idiot enamored by a beautiful man whose very job it is to be beautiful.

Louis Tomlinson is someone to consume, to wonder at. He's lightyears and galaxies away from your little shop in Notting Hill.

And yet…

It's a mind-bending task, eclipsing in your head the Louis you met with the two-time BAFTA winner and one-time Oscar nominee Louis Tomlinson. Louis Tomlinson sparkles all over, his eyes like stars as he laughs so readily. Louis’s eyes— when he even lets you see them— smolder with intensity, his smile an earned gift. Louis Tomlinson is an actor who delivers his lines with precision and a chameleon-like sincerity he can conjure in a moment and channel into anything. Louis is harder to read— blindingly lovely, but doling himself out in careful teaspoons, a sudden splash of recklessness.

Louis Tomlinson dances through fields of rumors about his sexuality, winking coyly in a now infamous interview with James Corden you find on YouTube. The only flicker of doubt in Louis’s kiss was whether you would indeed return it.

No wonder you didn’t recognize him earlier.

Your sigh is like a shiver, delicate and feverish, as you tuck your broken phone away. You want more than anything to tell Zayn, or call up your sister, or your mum— but Louis asked you not to tell anyone. He isn’t around to enforce the promise, but you nonetheless feel compelled to keep it. A secret, yours and his— like something out of a dream. Already, the memory feels like four AM on a night you can’t sleep, the sky a surreal purplish-blue just before sunrise, everything hazy around the edges. It’s better to say nothing, and let it go.

This is your life: your crowded little bookshop, your best friend smelling like smoke and gingerspice, your unsanitary flatmate waiting for you at home at the end of the day with a couple of beers. Your existence is quiet— anonymous. Not even your graduating class in secondary, that basically grew up with you, could be reliably counted on to remember your name now.

There's no point, chasing anything more, even in your own head. Because this life might not be much, but it's what you have. And it’s enough, really. Enough to be getting on with just now.

\--

It’s two days later, when Zayn— sitting on his favorite stool with his feet up on the register, sipping idly on a cappuccino— says, as though the thought has wafted into his head like the scent of honeysuckle on a breeze, “There was a call for you yesterday.”

You— restacking the shelves to make space for some newly acquired books, sweating through the rainbow bandana in your hair as you hum along to the R&B playlist Zayn has on— poke your head out to squint at him.

“What do you mean, there was a call for me?”

“‘Zactly what I said.”

“Who was it? A customer?”

“I think so?” Zayn frowns, putting his feet down so that he can rifle through his papers at the desk. “Fuck, I can’t find where I wrote it down.”

“Well, do you remember who the person was? What they said?” You’d be lying to yourself if you didn’t admit that deep down, a fragile, improbable hope blooms— too fragile to be named, hanging on the words Zayn is still rummaging through his brain for.

But he draws a blank. “I don’t know. Shit. I’m sorry.”

“Was it a man or a woman?”

“A man,” Zayn says definitively. “I think his name was...Lou, or Louis, maybe?”

Your heart promptly crashlands like a defunct spaceship, tearing through your innards and landing in pieces somewhere in your toes. Hope, trampled in the melee by a reality far wilder than you dared imagine.

Him. Louis. It must be.

“Do you have the number?” you ask, a little too breathlessly.

“Yeah, yeah— except, hang on, he said— he said something about staying at the Savoy, and leave him a message there,” Zayn says. “Didn’t give a room number, but said to tell the concierge it was...fuck, he gave this other name.”

It is actual agony, pretending like you are patient and dispassionate when you’re anything but.

“Oh, right!” Zayn snaps his fingers loudly, makes you jump. “He said to tell the concierge you wanted to speak to Hal Jordan. I remember because I was about to be like, wait, you mean Green Lantern? But he hung up. I tell you, Haz, our customers are the fucking weirdest.”

But you're already on your phone on your way out the back door, squinting through the cracks on your screen to Google the number for the Savoy.

You take refuge outside in the alley, the phone held to your ear by your quivering hand. The day is hot and humid, and there is no shade, no respite here for your overheated body, but the phone is ringing now, and shards of inflamed heart are stuck in your throat, and it shouldn’t matter, this shouldn’t matter, it shouldn’t, except that right now it’s everything, and you just, you have to know. You have to know if and how and why he might have called this place, of all places— you, of all people.

The concierge transfers you without a problem, and _he_ picks up on the second ring.

“Hello?”

“Hi,” you say, in a passable attempt at professional friendliness. “This, um— this is Harry? From the bookshop?”

“Hi, Harry, thanks for calling back.” You can practically hear him smile through the phone.

“You’re welcome, Hal Jordan.” You blush, even though he can’t see you. He chuckles— giggles, more like— and you find yourself beaming at the brick wall in front of you.

“Yeah, sorry about that,” he says. “Security measure, when I travel. I always check in under the name of a superhero. Last time I was Wade Wilson.”

“Great choice,” you say, making him chuckle again. “So, er— what can I do for you?”

“I was actually wondering if you could swing by the Savoy tomorrow, at about four?”

His tone is light, airy, but a jolt like thunder dries your throat and electrifies your heart. “Sure! But what, um— what for?”

“I need to return your shirt, for one thing.”

“Oh, that’s all right, you can just keep it—”

“It’s okay if you don’t want to come, you know.” His tone is amused rather than offended. “You’ve figured out who I am, haven’t you.”

“Louis Tomlinson,” you say, automatically, as though his name was waiting on the back of your tongue since he kissed you in your front entrance.

“Right, very good. And I can understand how that might be...well.” He lets the tantalizing edge of the phrase dangle for a breathless moment. “So how about this: I am going to be at the Savoy tomorrow, around four o’clock, and if you want, you can come by to suite 1600. And if you don’t want to, that’s all right too, no hard feelings. I’ll have your shirt messengered to your shop by evening.”

You find yourself restlessly shifting your weight from one leg to the other and back, a little lightheaded in the heat and the sound of Louis breathing on the other end of the line. You can feel the heat in your cheeks, warm and giddy. He presents it like a choice, but you know, in your heart of hearts, that there really isn’t one here. Where he leads, apparently you follow— or so the song goes.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” you say, firmly.

There is a smile in Louis’s voice as he agrees, “Alright, tomorrow.”

You murmur a quick goodbye, hang up the phone— enjoy the burn of the sunlight, bright and sweet on your face. The butterfly tattooed to your stomach has never felt more fitting, anxious anticipation like a flutter of wings sending ripples through your insides.

It would be better to feign amnesia, to be safe and smart and pretend you never allowed this blue-eyed enigma to slip beneath your skin. You know this. You know. This can't be allowed to begin, can't even be named in the safety of your skull— because he is him, and you are you, and there is no way this could begin and turn into something that ended well.

But— he called.

So you go inside the shop again, and double check the train route to the Savoy.

\--

“You still haven’t told me much about this friend of yours,” Niall points out through a mouthful of crisps, jabbing an accusatory finger in your general direction later that night.

“Yeah, you’ve been skimpy on the details,” Zayn agrees, helping himself to a crisp from the bowl balanced on Niall’s lap. “I _know_ all of your friends. Plus, if I’m to cover for you at work, I deserve to know who my labor is in service of.”

You sigh huffily, taking a crisp yourself since they’re at it, brow furrowed in a tiny frown as you stare meaningfully at the TV screen. Liam always works late on Monday nights, so Zayn likes to come over for crisps and beer and whatever else is around, ostensibly to watch a film but mainly to ignore the film in favor of general conversation. Which, tonight, centers around the thrilling whodunnit of “which old friend of yours has magically decided to visit on Tuesday afternoon and force Zayn to close the shop before Gemma’s birthday do later at Zayn and Liam’s?”

You are such a shit liar. You should’ve just said your mum was missing you and taken two days off work instead of an afternoon. But no, no, you froze up and made the colossal mistake of telling Niall that an old friend of yours wanted to see you at the Savoy for a drink, and now Niall has to know who it is. And once Niall had to know, so did Zayn.

Several valiant attempts at evasion over the last half hour over _Titanic_ , and still— back to square one. You offer Zayn the rest of your beer, but he just shakes his head impatiently, expression eager.

“It’s— it’s not terribly exciting,” you say helplessly, crossing your arms tightly over your chest. “It’s, er— Nigel. You know. From uni.”

“Nigel from uni?” Zayn wrinkles his nose. “Nigel, who’s been spamming Instagram with pictures of his vacation to Singapore all week?”

“You are such a shit liar,” Niall confirms, stuffing three crisps into his mouth simultaneously. He chews loudly for a moment, then narrows his eyes suspiciously in your direction. “Wait. You’re not meeting Nick, are you?”

“ _Harry_.” Zayn’s tone is scandalized. “Please, _please_ tell me you’re not meeting fucking Nick again.”

“I’m not!” You have never been so grateful that this is true. “I promised last time, and I meant it.”

“Amen.” Niall raises his beer to you, then takes a long sip.

None of your friends cherished much of a soft spot for Nick Grimshaw, your now ex-boyfriend of seven years, even when you were together, but Niall— who moved into the house with the blue door towards the sour end of the relationship, and witnessed its messy disintegration— hates Nick with a passion to rival even Zayn’s. Last year, when Nick convinced you to come out and have a drink with him “as friends,” and it ended with you in his bed and Nick, as usual, gone somewhere, Niall and Zayn made you swear on the deed to your shop that you would cut off all contact with Nick for the rest of this life and the entirety of the next. And you have actually managed to keep that promise, even on the nights when it twinged.

“So, if it’s not Nick, who else would you lie about…” Zayn is back to his little mystery, and you groan loudly.

“Zayner. Please. Jack and Rose are going to dinner now, this is a good scene, please leave me alone.”

“ _Wait_.” Zayn’s entirely-too-lovely face splits into a wide, suggestive grin. “It isn’t that customer who called yesterday, is it?”

“A customer?” Niall’s interest is piqued through a soggy mouthful of crisps.

“Yeah, we had this strange customer call the other day, and when I told Haz about it, he leapt up like he’d been electrocuted and ran out back with his phone. Did Louis or whoever he was ask you out?”

Zayn and Niall both lean closer towards you, eyes wide and round as coins. You feel the heat rise in your cheeks, burning the tips of your ears.

“It’s really none of your business,” you manage, but this only serves to embolden their dramatic gasps.

“Oh my god, Hazza’s going on a _date_!” Zayn pulls you close by your shoulders, lovingly ruffles your hair. “I’m so proud of you, mate!”

“It’s nothing, honest,” you insist weakly, but neither of them are having it. They spend the rest of the evening ignoring _Titanic_ and subjecting you to a veritable inquisition, not knowing, never even close to guessing, who they are really talking about. So you let them get carried away, finishing the bowl of crisps by yourself with a semi-permanent blush on your face; because it’s easier than parsing out the complicated truth, and because you can see this for what it is. A friendly ribbing, but also a robust show of support.

You and Nick were together for seven years— some good months scattered amongst years of petulance, resentment, break-up sex and make-up sex, the peculiar heavy inertia of toxicity, and the discovery, by the end of it, that Nick was a pathological cheater who’d never been faithful to you anyway. Since then, the blind dates your friends have tried to set you up with have fizzled into nothingness, and you generally haven’t been able to muster up the energy to be intrigued by anyone new, instead spending your days nurturing your little bookstore and not much else. It’s been a long time since you’ve willingly gone out with anyone— even on a strange non-date like this. And it's the reason why Zayn and Niall are so excited— this seeming end to the long period of abstinence. A thawing in that numb layer of permafrost that seems to have settled around your heart.

You still don’t see any reason to get anyone’s hopes up— but they are so innocently happy for you, and you are too bemused to feel anything besides gentle confusion. So you let them have at it— prattle on into the night, heads in the clouds, while you try your very hardest to keep your feet firmly on the ground.

\--

The Savoy is nicer than any place you’ve ever been to in person. A vast lobby, marble floors and a blast of crisp air conditioning; great stony pillars and ornate crystal chandeliers; so many shades of black and gold and creamy white. Men and women in monochromatic business attire, making you feel even more like a child playing pretend— you, in your nicer pair of black jeans, curls freshly shampooed, a blue shirt with sleeves pushed up to your elbows and the top two buttons undone in the sticky heat outside. In a fit of minor insanity, you stopped to buy some carnations from a stall on the street— politeness and all; you’re going to see a celebrity after all— and now you clutch their stems in clammy nervousness, the petals brushing against the crook of your arm as you walk. You almost expect the security guards to stop you, interrogate you about your intentions— but no one looks twice, as you timidly make your way to Suite 1600.

It’s situated at the back end of the first floor, but it isn’t as quiet as its relatively private location might suggest. The door is open, manned by a tall, irritable-looking man with a clipboard directing traffic in and out of the suite. When he sees you, he gestures impatiently for you to hurry up and approach him.

“Which paper are you from?” he asks, scanning down the list on his clipboard.

“Er—” Taken thoroughly aback, you glance around you, convinced he must be speaking to someone else. But his eyes meet yours in a flash of steely, no-nonsense gray, and you feel your rabbit heart prepare to flee right out of your chest.

“Go on, then, which paper?” he asks again, pointedly.

“He, um— I think he’s expecting me, actually—” But the look on the man’s face sufficiently frightens you into blurting out, with no warning for him or even yourself: “ _Horse & Hound_. I’m from _Horse & Hound _ magazine.”

The man arches a skeptical eyebrow, but to your utter astonishment, he nods once and shoves a packet of papers into your hands. “Wait in there, and Steph will send you in when it’s your turn.”

Behind you, two women are approaching— journalists, with proper press credentials dangling from their necks and everything. You scoot inside before the man notices you don’t have a similar lanyard, breath catching in your throat as you enter the plush waiting room filled with people standing around, eating sandwiches, and chatting. A couple of large posters rest on spindly wooden easels— promotional images for _Midnight Memories_ , the film you Googled last night. Somehow, you’ve managed to wander into Louis Tomlinson’s film’s press circuit. You reach for one of the mini water bottles on the long table, and chug it down in one shaky, anxious gulp.

The woman called Steph— long blonde hair, impeccable highlights, bright pink lipstick on her smiling mouth— approaches you as you gasp for air. “Name?”

“Er— Harry. Styles. He should be expecting me?”

“I’ll check,” she says, and disappears again.

You consider trying a sandwich, but your stomach is in such a precarious state being in the Savoy, in this buzzing suite inexplicably full of journalists, that you figure it’s probably best not to overburden your digestive tract. Instead, you reach for more water. You’re just finishing the bottle when Steph reappears, the smile on her face even bigger.

“Come with me, then, Mr. Styles,” she says, and you obediently follow her back through the door, past some incredulous-looking journalists who obviously see you as the obstruction to hierarchy that you are. You feel even sillier clutching your flowers when nobody else was stupid enough to bring any— sillier still when Steph brings you into an ornate sitting room in cream and lilac and gold, which is lined with enormous vases containing the prettiest flower arrangements you’ve seen in your life.

And there, in the middle of it all, is Louis. Wearing a jacket and a pale pink shirt over black pants, his hair arranged into a tastefully windswept quiff. His eyes, that stark cornflower blue, unobscured by sunglasses— staring squarely into your face as you stand there, gaping haplessly at the opulence of the room and also at him, like he’s something out of a fantasy you'd otherwise be too shy to even imagine. A grin plays at the corner of his mouth as he, too, takes in the sight of you— and you can’t imagine what he must see. A tall, gangly, curly nobody, clutching the press packet and a pathetic little bunch of carnations like you’re a six-year-old child hiding behind your lunchbox.

“Go ahead and ask whatever you need,” says Steph as she exits out of the door she came in from. “I’ll come back for you in a few minutes.”

Once the door is shut behind her, the words tumble out of your mouth like sea foam.

“I’m sorry, he just, he asked me what magazine I was from and handed me this, and I—”

“No, no, it’s my fault,” Louis interrupts. “I thought I’d be done with all of this by now, but somehow I always end up underestimating how much of my time they sap. These are really nice, by the way, thank you.” He accepts the flowers from your quivering fingers, sets them on the table, then pauses, eyes sparkling. “Incidentally, what magazine did you tell Simon you were from?”

“Er— _Horse & Hound_,” you admit. And, when he snorts in amusement—“It was a totally out-of-the-blue question! And I dunno where that title came from, I think I saw it in a film once or something. It was just the first thing that popped into my head.”

“You know, as luck would have it, I actually did ride a horse for one scene,” Louis says, sitting down on the little sofa in the middle of the room. “Brie Larson and I both did.”

“Was it really you the whole time, or did you bring on a stunt double?” you ask, interest piqued as you lower yourself into the adjacent chair.

“It was me. Nearly fell off the saddle about a hundred times, though. Brie turned out to have a real knack for it, but I was miserable. I couldn’t ride that thing to save my own life. I’m sure they had to re-shoot everything with stunt doubles and edit me in during post-production.”

You try to picture it— Louis, small and golden, shapely legs straddled over the body of a brown mare, struggling to hold on. But it’s hard to see him here, so at home in these posh surroundings, and imagine him ever being bad at anything.

So you let yourself smile, and say, “The readers of _Horse & Hound _ will be very sorry to hear you had such a terrible experience. I’ll ask them to email in some tips for you for next time. Or maybe we can start a Gofundme collection for you to get proper riding lessons.”

Louis bursts out laughing at this— a real laugh, unrestrained, his eyes delightfully crinkly. And you can’t help but grin at him too, a little in awe of his radiance; the way he seems to fill up this whole room with light and color. With this hairline crack in yesterday’s shell, he is even lovelier than you know what to do with.

“I’m glad you came,” he tells you, gaze as warm as his tone. “Here, I have your shirt for you.” He crosses the room, rummages through a collection of things in the corner and pulls out your old button-down, suddenly looking brand new after being neatly pressed and folded. “Thank you for letting me borrow it.”

“Only fair, after I spilled my coffee all over it,” you point out. “You could’ve kept it, you know. There was no need to interrupt all of— this.” You gesture vaguely towards the door, where the media circus undoubtedly awaits.

“Well, I did have an ulterior motive.” Only now does Louis betray even a hint of the discomfort that has been churning inside you all afternoon, his posture almost unnaturally straight. “I just— I wanted to check in with you about the, um, kissing thing, before.” He carefully clears his throat. “It was— well, spontaneous, on my part, and I wanted to make sure that you were...you know, okay about it.”

Your blush must be a sight to behold; Gemma always teased you through childhood about being such an English rose, a perpetual red to your cheeks in your easy embarrassment. You tuck your curls behind your ears with quivering fingers, feel yourself shrinking back in your chair.

“Right. Right...well, um. I didn’t tell anyone, like I promised. And I swear I never will. So you don’t have to worry about being outed or— or anything like that.”

“That’s good to know.” His tone is oddly colorless, but something in his shoulders relaxes a little all the same.

“It’s all just been— strange,” you admit, overearnest to your own ears. “Like something out of a dream. A good dream, though. The kind you want to stay asleep a little longer for.”

His eyes are such a disarming blue; it’s difficult to meet them for too long without your gaze flitting away. Like he’s the sun, and you are the hapless little space-rock lost in his gravity. Louis leans in a touch closer, eyes still on you like he’s searching you for something.

“What happens next in the dream?” he asks evenly.

You manage to meet his eyes again, feel your own widening at the sight of him, as though craving to drink in as much of him as he can give and you can take. Your stomach lurches as though the large yellow butterfly you got tattooed after secondary has come alive all at once, fluttering madly in anticipation. Even in the realm of dreams, this— Louis Tomlinson in an impeccable suit jacket, the press a breath away in the next room, the memory of your shared kiss lingering like smoke in the air between you— is an almost ridiculous kind of unrealistic. Louis Tomlinson, who dates supermodels and actresses as famous as he is, staring so intently with the whole of his attention at someone as ordinary as you. Waiting for you to speak, as though it’s somehow important. A nervous heat prickles at the back of your neck.

“Well...in the, er, dream scenario, I would— you know, change my whole personality, because you can do that in dreams. Be more like Bradley Cooper, or Ryan Gosling, or even you. Proper leading man personality.” Your breath feels shallow in your lungs, all the oxygen in the room going thin as a smile flickers across Louis’s face. “And, um...it’s a dream, right, so— so there’s no girlfriend, or anyone like that, and I’d just...just walk up to you, like they do in films, and...and I’d be brave enough to kiss you, and you….you would let me.”

You let your voice trail off there, equal parts timid and wondrous. An instant flood of mortification temporarily robs you of breath— he’s still basically a stranger, he’s supposed to be straight, he’s someone whose face you’ll see plastered all over the tube long after you both vanish from each other’s lives— but Louis’s face is infinitely tender. He inhales, as though he’s about to speak— but Steph chooses this moment to open the door and pop her head inside, making both of you jump.

“Hi, almost done?” she asks expectantly. “Only we’ve still got a bunch of people who need to talk to you, Mr. Tomlinson, so if we could—?”

“Two minutes,” Louis tells her.

She hesitates a beat, but correctly interprets the barely concealed note of tension in his voice and melts away, closing the door behind her.

“I really don’t mean to intrude,” you insist again, clearing your throat and jumping up from the chair. “You’ve got all this other— stuff— going on, and I’ve got my shirt back now—”

“Harry.”

It’s the sound of your name in his mouth, firm and full of intent, that stops you, roots you where you stand. Surprises you, with its intensity, the heat it brings to his eyes. Your grip tightens on the folds of your button-down shirt.

“I know my life is a little…complicated,” Louis says, clearing his throat around the word, “but are you doing anything tonight?”

The words are like a cricket bat to your throat; for a moment, all you can muster are wide doe eyes and a flustered fish mouth. “I— what?”

“We could get a drink at the hotel bar, if you’re around,” he continues, without a trace of embarrassment. “Or, if you know some other place nearby.”

“I— well, I mean, I— it would be an honor, but—” You screw your eyes shut, as reality comes crashing back down upon you. “Shit, um, it’s actually my older sister’s birthday party tonight? We’re getting together with some friends for dinner, and—”

“That’s fine,” Louis says.

“No, no, I’m sure I could get out of it—”

And you’re already running through the excuses you could give— how to suffer the inevitable bollocking you’ll receive— except Louis surprises you, yet again.

“I meant— if it’s alright with you, I could come with you. To the party. Instead of going to a bar.”

Your mind— which had been rattling like a runaway train through your skull— seems to stop dead all at once, colliding in on itself. “You...you want to come to my sister’s birthday party. With me.”

Only now does a shadow of insecurity flash across Louis’s expression. “Only if it’s alright with you.”

“I mean, sure, you’d be more than welcome,” you tell him, a grin forming at the corners of your mouth. “It’s nothing formal— Zayn’s cooking, and he does wicked good Pakistani, if you can handle the spice. And it’ll only be a few of us, if you’re— you know, worried about privacy. Just me, Gems, Zayn and Liam, my flatmate Niall, and our friends Taylor and Karlie.”

“If you trust them, I trust them,” Louis says simply. But he’s smiling too, almost...gratefully. His face has the glow of sunrise— sweet, somehow fresh and new. “Will the party be in Notting Hill?”

“Yeah, Zayn and Liam live a couple of streets down, and we’re doing it at theirs. Thanks to Niall, my place is never tidy enough for guests, as you've already seen. But, um— you could meet me at mine, since you know where it is? And we could walk there together, round seven?”

“Yeah, that sounds good,” says Louis. “House with the blue door, seven o’clock.”

“That’s right.” You feel a blush at the tips of your ears, creeping down the back of your neck. “So— so, okay, I’ll let you get back to everything here, and I’ll...I’ll see you tonight.”

You scramble to your feet, which have mysteriously filled with jelly, manage to shake Louis’s hand with shaky fingers and scurry out the door before you can embarrass yourself further. Steph has clearly been waiting in the hallway for you to finish, and barely spares you half a glance, ushering in the next (legitimate) journalist into Louis’s room, while you are left to make your own way back through the melee in the entrance and out of the suite, like you’ve stumbled through a gate from another world. A strange upside-down world where super-famous actors volunteer, seemingly of their own volition, to leave Mount Hollywood to have dinner with mere mortals. It’s almost too much to comprehend— as though material reality itself cannot be trusted. This is, far and away, the most unbelievable thing to ever happen to your quiet, little life.

By some miracle, you catch the right train back to Notting Hill, and stare at the floor all the way home, wondering what exactly you’ve gotten yourself into.

—

“A _date_?” Niall’s pale eyebrows are in real danger of disappearing right into his flyaway hairline. “So you’re actually bringing your _date_ to the party?”

“Yes, and you have to promise not to make a big deal about it,” you tell him sternly. “Don’t want to scare him off right away with all your invasive questions. And be careful with those crumbs, I don’t want them all over my duvet.”

Niall is currently lounging on your bed and working his way through a bag of Flaming Hot Cheetos— his version of pre-gaming before eating Zayn’s cooking, which tends to scorch his Irish palette if he’s not prepared for it— while you turn your wardrobe upside down, looking for something to wear. He ignores the comment about the crumbs, his timing impeccable as a sprinkling falls into the folds of your duvet, but watches your progress with avid interest.

“What’s his name, then?” he asks, reaching for the glass of water on your side table.

“Louis.”

“And he _was_ that customer you went to meet earlier today.”

“Yes.”

“You must really like him, if you’re bringing him to dinner and introducing him to all of us as your first date,” Niall observes.

“I suppose so.” You examine a yellow shirt for a moment before tossing it back to the floor.

“I think you should wear your pink Charlie Brown shirt,” Niall informs you through a mouthful of Cheetos. “With the white stripe. And your black jeans.”

“This one?” You pull out the shirt he’s referring to, hold it up to your front and squint at your reflection in the mirror. “Shouldn’t I wear something nicer? Like…” You root through a drawer and pull out your black-and-blue flannel shirt, wave it in Niall’s face. “This is good, right? With my blue jacket?”

Niall nods his approval, and you slip out of your current jeans, start pulling on your best black ones. “So he’s meeting you here?”

“Yeah, I figured we could walk over together.”

“Which means I have to bugger off early and go help Zayner with the party, for _your_ sister.”

“I would appreciate it, yeah.”

“Fine.” Niall finishes off the last of the Cheetos, licks the red dust from his fingers with a shudder. “But only ‘cuz I love ya, mate. And I’m excited to meet your fancy _date_.”

You hesitate as you start buttoning your shirt. “It’s, um...it’s not serious right now, or anything. His schedule is...complicated, and he only had tonight, and that’s all it is right now. Just dinner. You and everyone— you’re not going to make it weird, are you?”

Niall grins, his teeth still tinged red. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

And all you can do is groan, and retire to the bathroom to brush your teeth.

—

The front doorbell rings at exactly 7pm— a feat of impressiveness that is only slightly edged out by the fact that you were already in the front entrance ready to answer the door, showered and dressed, Gemma’s gift in the pocket of your jacket, smelling of the good cologne you’ve been hoarding since Christmas. Thankfully, Niall had been a good sport about leaving in plenty of time with only minimal eyebrow wagging, and you sprayed what you haven’t been able to tidy in the kitchen with liberal amounts of citrus air freshener. You’ve made yourself as ready as you know how to be. But your stomach still clenches at the sound of the bell.

You count ten one-hundreds in your head, heart pumping hard in your chest, then open the door with the biggest smile you can muster— only to indeed be confronted with him. Louis. The sheer physical presence and realness of him, megawatt film star standing benignly on your doorstep in black jeans and a green sweater, holding a beautiful bouquet and a brown paper bag in his hands. Your eyes go a little wide, mingled wonder and relief warm in your veins.

“Hi,” you say. “Please— come in.”

You move aside to let him pass, and his eyes are like two small, sunlit oceans, shining and a little magical, as he enters.

“You seem surprised,” he notes with amusement, leaning back against the wall to face you. “Did you think I wouldn’t come?”

Again, that blush. “I would have understood completely if you didn’t. And those flowers are— Gems’ll love them.”

“I _am_ going to a birthday party,” Louis points out, smiling. “Flowers and wine are the least I can do.”

“It’s perfect.” You clear your throat, run a self-conscious hand through your hair. “Well, er— can I offer you water or anything before we go?”

“I’m fine,” Louis says. “Do _you_ need anything? We can open this wine now, if you want a pick-me-up. It can be our little secret.”

You get a distinct sense that he is rather enjoying your obvious discomfort— which, of course, only deepens the pink in your cheeks.

“No. No, I’m alright. Let’s go.”

“Okay,” Louis says easily, shifting the flowers to his other arm to open the door. You fumble with the keys, locking up the house and then following behind him, the summer breeze a gentle kind of bracing. You open your mouth to offer to help him with the bag or the flowers, but Louis just laughs. The sound rings, rich and effortless in the night air.

“I’ve got them, Harry, don’t worry. I did take the train here, you know. And walked to your place.”

“You took a train?” you ask in astonishment. “Are you even allowed to do that?”

“What, because I’m famous?” The laugh is still in his eyes as he registers your confusion. “Simon, my manager, hates it when I do stuff like that. Which is half the reason I do it. I grew up in Queens to a single mother with three jobs; I am very familiar with taking public transportation by myself.”

“But don’t people recognize you?”

“You’d be surprised,” Louis shrugs. “When I’m dressed casually, walk quickly, and look down at my phone, most people just move right along. Everyone’s got somewhere to be. I might as well be invisible.”

“So you can just— take the train to Notting Hill to meet a stranger, and you don’t have to have bodyguards or anything?” Such a notion seems nothing short of miraculous.

“Yeah, so long as I let my team know beforehand, and still make it to my engagements the next day.”

“Do you have anything tomorrow?”

“An interview in the morning,” Louis admits. “But seriously, don’t worry. I’ve been in this business this a long time now. I know what I’m doing.”

His shoulder brushes playfully against yours, sending you slightly off-balance— but this only makes you beam, and him chuckle. He shifts the bag and the flowers to his other side, and it strikes you, without warning, what a strange and giddy feeling it is, to be walking these quiet streets you've made your home with Louis by your side. He is like a fresh coat of paint on the living room wall— making the familiar somehow new again.

You guide him down one more block then around the corner, where Zayn and Liam live in a rowhouse similar to yours but with an eggshell-colored door that you and Zayn painted together. You ring the bell and step back so that you’re next to Louis again, the lines of your arms touching in the narrowness of Zayn and Liam’s entrance. The momentary closeness— small, yet still a little thrilling— gives you a whiff of Louis’s cologne, which is almost intoxicatingly lovely. But, fortunately, Zayn is quick to the door, and opens it with a grin.

“Hazza, hey! And Hazza’s date! Come on in!” he says, stepping to the side and moving down the hallway so the two of you can enter. “Nearly everyone’s here now, we’re only waiting on Taylor. And I’m just finishing up with dinner.”

When Zayn is safely out of earshot, Louis leans in behind you, the scent of his cologne more concentrated and even more heavenly up close. “So. You didn’t tell them about me and my dirty little secret, huh.”

Your stomach falls like a nectarine pit into the bottom of a dumpster. “I just— it was all so fast— they were going to tear the mickey out of me—”

“Relax,” Louis says, mischief audible in his tone. “I don’t actually mind, I’m just...intrigued.”

The tips of your ears burn a glowing red. You want to answer, but you and Louis have now entered the kitchen, where everyone is already assembled— Zayn, tending to the various bubbling pots on the stove, Gemma and Karlie looking at something on Karlie’s phone, Niall sitting on the counter with a partially-drunk glass of wine, laughing about something with Liam, who’s parked his wheelchair closer to the dining area to leave a clear path for Zayn from stove to the already-set table. All of them look up to offer a general greeting— like the calm before the storm, the innocence before the recognition. And you’re already embarrassed, standing timidly in this room wondering why on earth you thought it was a good idea not to warn any of them about who, exactly, you were bringing tonight. You bite your lip, hard, and determinedly avoid looking at Louis as Niall hops off the counter and brings over the wine bottle and a glass for you.

“Heya, Haz, have some wine. And I wanna meet your _date_ — hey, I’m Niall, Harry’s flatmate—” He shoves the glass into your hand and offers his free one to Louis to shake vigorously, but then— predictably— pauses.

“Wait, hang on a sec. You look familiar,” he says, squinting as though Louis is an art piece requiring special scrutiny. “What was your name again?”

“I’m Louis,” he says patiently, a knowing smile playing at the corners of his mouth. He is definitely enjoying this.

“Louis... _wait_ , fucking hell, you don’t mean Louis _Tomlinson_ , do you?” Niall’s eyes go wide as coins; he’s in real danger of dropping the bottle of wine he’s holding. “I swear I saw your face on the bus I took to work this morning!”

“It’s nice to meet you, Niall,” Louis says serenely, shaking Niall’s now limp hand.

“Surprise,” you mutter, moving towards your now-thunderstruck sister, who is standing beside an equally thunderstruck Karlie. “Happy birthday, Gems. This is from me.” You take the envelope out of your pocket and hand it to her, but she barely pays it any attention, her expression full of questions.

“Yes, happy birthday, Gemma,” Louis says, holding out the flowers and the paper bag. “That’s a bottle of red in there. I can put it on the table, if you like? If you want to open it tonight?”

“Alright,” Gemma says faintly. “Sure. Yes. Thank you. Louis Tomlinson.”

Louis— whose whole face seems to have lit up, like he’s thriving on the confusion his presence has caused— moves with confidence towards the dining table, where he places the wine in the center of the table. He then turns to Liam, who has yet to lift his chin from his chest in astonishment. “Is there something I can put these flowers in? We can use them as a centerpiece for dinner.”

Liam finally clears his throat. “Er— yes, yes, of course. Z, pass me the vase in the top cabinet.”

On cue, Zayn fetches the vase in question, fills it with water from the sink, and hands it to Louis, features unconvincingly arranged into what he appears to believe is neutral blandness. Louis accepts the vase and arranges the flowers in it, while the attention of the room— taking advantage of Louis’s momentary distraction— snaps directly to you, five pairs of eyes boring into you with shades of bewilderment, shock, and disbelief. You can only stare down at your shoes, gingerly tucking and retucking your curls behind your ear. You are sure to hear about this later; Niall in particular is practically vibrating with all he wants to unload upon you at first opportunity.

“So, er— everyone, this is Louis, my…erm…guest,” you manage, in a passably normal voice. “Louis, that’s Niall, and Gemma. And that’s Zayn there, and Liam; they live here. And Karlie. And her wife, Taylor, should be here soon…”

“Nice to meet all of you,” Louis says, setting the vase down next to the wine on the table. “Thank you for having me.”

“No, er— no problem at all, mate, glad you could join us,” Liam says, ever the paragon of politeness. His hostly smile is more convincing than Zayn’s, as he wheels closer to Louis and shakes his hand. “Nialler, pour him some wine.”

Niall shakes his head like a punchdrunk dog, pours out your helping and then another one for Louis, who accepts it happily. He takes a demure sip, eyes bright and cheeky as he surveys the room over the lip of his glass. Everyone is still clearly stunned and unsure of what to do with themselves; only Zayn has something to do with his hands, turning off the stove and stirring through the dishes he’s made one more time. You finally gather the courage to catch Louis’s gaze, and it’s clear, from the way Louis is grinning at you, that he will not be the one to break this delicious silence.

At last, it is Niall who bursts out, “Hazza, how the bloody _fuck_ did you wind up meeting and bringing Louis Tomlinson over for dinner?!”

“It just kind of— happened!” you insist desperately. “I didn’t know how to tell you—”

“If you’d even halfway mentioned you were meeting a bloody film star, I wouldn’t have given you such a hard time about covering your shift today, would I!” Zayn says in equally scandalized tones.

“I’m sorry, I—”

“It was on me,” Louis interrupts, now coming to stand beside you, a reassuring hand on your shoulder. “I came into the bookstore a few days ago, and me and Harry hit it off. He told me he was coming here tonight, so I asked if I could come too. Practically invited myself over.”

“I told you you’d be welcome,” you stammer, but Louis just chuckles.

“I don’t mean to make things awkward. I know it’s Gemma’s birthday.”

“And this has to be the best bloody birthday present you’ve ever given me, little brother,” Gemma says, dissolving into giggles. “Whatever’s in this envelope, you’ve already beat it.”

She starts laughing in earnest now, hugging you and then, after a pause, hugging Louis too, beaming as he kisses her cheek. This gets Karlie going, giggling into her wine and throwing an arm around Gemma’s shoulders to keep herself standing— and suddenly, Zayn is laughing too, eyes like emoji lines as he and Liam exchange delighted looks, and Niall, perched back on the counter and doubling over with mirth. It’s like the ice has finally broken, and you can relax enough to enjoy this too. Louis’s eyes go crinkly as he takes another sip of wine, his hand on your shoulder more comforting than you expected, keeping you grounded. You chance a shy glance at his profile, and find yourself a little mesmerized by the ease and the brilliance of him, how beautiful he looks just standing here in Zayn’s kitchen, how effortlessly he wears everyone’s awe and attention. When he notices you staring, he winks, and you immediately avert your eyes, joining Niall to get a refill on your barely-drunk wine.

“Dinner’s ready, everyone,” Zayn announces with one more stir. “Louis, I hope you like spicy food.”

“I do,” Louis confirms. “Can I help you bring anything over?”

“Nah, the lads will get it,” Zayn says. “Now I’m gonna sit on my arse the rest of the night, and my husband here will earn his keep by doing wash-up duty.”

“Sir, yes, sir!” Liam says, saluting Zayn, while you and Niall start shifting food from pot to dish and handing them to Liam to take back to the table. Karlie, meanwhile, checks her phone, and says, “Tay was stuck in traffic, but she’ll be here in a minute. Hey, Louis, fair warning— I’m not going to tell her about you, so she’s going to come in here and absolutely lose her shit when she sees you, because she’s completely obsessed with your filmography and has been for ages. Hope that’s cool.”

“Fine by me,” Louis says comfortably. “Women crying at the sight of me is, for better and for worse, a part of my job description.”

“Cheers,” says Niall with a snort, raising his glass in Louis’s direction.

“Right then, you lot, let’s start eating, Taylor can just join us when she gets here,” Gemma says. “This all smells so good, Z, you’ve really outdone yourself.”

“Anything for you, Gems,” Zayn says, blowing her a kiss. “Happy birthday, love.”

The group migrates towards the table, Niall pouring out more wine for everyone except Zayn, who helps himself to a glass of water. Louis sits down next to him, asking him about what’s in each dish as he helps himself to a bit of everything. The last of Zayn’s formality evaporates off his face as he revels in his willing audience, and you can’t help but melt a little at the sight of Zayn ladling generous dollops of yogurt into Louis’s plate in case the spice level overwhelms him. Louis smiles his crinkly-eyed smile again, and Zayn’s mirrors it almost exactly, their chemistry immediate and warm.

You consider sitting in the empty spot next to Louis, but then decide to sit across from him instead, where you have a clear view of his face and his body language, the food on his plate and the way he is nodding along to Zayn waxing lyrical about the culinary importance of fresh ginger. Liam starts telling Louis about his banishment from the kitchen every time Zayn cooks— “He keeps saying I'll distract him! But then he calls me in every ten seconds fretting because he needs me to taste test!”— and you blush into your glass of wine, watching Louis cackle at Zayn’s defensive squawking, Liam high-fiving Louis across the table like they're the best of friends already.

You can feel Gemma’s eyes on you— curious now, somehow knowing in that way older sisters always are— but you curl your shoulders inward and take a bite of (very spicy, very delicious) kabob, quietly basking in the easy glow of Louis’s gravitas.

About five minutes later, the bell rings, and Zayn fetches Taylor from the front door, her expression and her blonde hair just this side of frazzled.

“Sorry I'm so late, everyone, meeting ran way over— happy birthday, Gem, Karlie told me she already brought you our gifts—”

There is a pregnant pause for a moment, while Taylor shrugs off the cardigan she's wearing and makes her way to the empty seat at the table next to Karlie, whose head she presses a quick kiss to as she sits down. But Karlie starts giggling again, hands over her mouth, while Taylor scrunches her nose in confusion.

“Have I missed something?” she asks.

“Hi, I'm Louis, Harry’s date,” Louis tells her, with his most dazzling smile.

It doesn't take her long to put it together. In fact, it makes you want to curse yourself even more for not recognizing him in the bookshop the first time, when clearly he's one of the most recognizable faces in the world and you must be the worst judge of pattern recognition in the United Kingdom. Taylor’s eyes go cartoon-big, her gasp sharp and obvious and sending the rest of the table into hysterics.

“Harry, fucking hell, you have _so much_ explaining to do right now!” Taylor half-screams, half-sobs over the din. “K, I'm going to kill you later for not warning me, and Louis, I'm going to ask you for pictures once you're done eating. Sorry, not sorry.”

There are tears of hilarity welling up in Louis’s eyes. “I'll take as many as you want. It's nice to meet you.”

Taylor buries her face in her hands trying to calm herself down— and you feel yourself go beet-root red as you attempt to keep your head down and not choke on the food you insist on stuffing your mouth with, lest anyone demand anything more from you than you are currently prepared to give.

—

But, as much as your friends enjoy teasing you for the plot twist of your guest’s identity, the conversation flows quite easily and boisterously from there. Taylor’s breathing eventually returns to normal, and she, like everyone, acclimates quickly to Louis’s presence— in large part because of _him_ , and how good he is at this. At relating to people, asking them the right questions to open them up, providing colorful anecdotes that have the whole table in peals of laughter. Zayn keeps checking on his spice tolerance, but Louis holds his own, draining several glasses of water Zayn runs to get him and still taking a second helping. Niall, predictably, has to excuse himself for the walk of shame to the fridge to get milk halfway through the meal, while the rest of the table boos him, and exclaims in delighted disgust when he drinks the milk straight from the carton in retaliation.

Louis fits with your friends like a puzzle piece none of you even knew was missing— radiant, as he asks each of them what they do, and answers their questions with charm and verve. You actually prefer to stay silent for much of the meal, just to watch and admire what he's like, a bird of paradise in full bloom for the whole room to marvel at. So different from the monochrome person hiding behind his sunglasses in your bookshop— different, too, from the quietly reckless man who kissed a stranger in the shadow of his own doorway. He's come alive here tonight, and brought all of you to life with him. As though there is an overflow of sunflowers inside of you now, threatening to burst out of your very pores.

Once dinner is finished, and Louis has graciously helped Liam and Karlie take everything to the sink, Zayn brings out a plate of beautifully frosted cupcakes Liam baked in Gemma’s honor. Gemma blushes and preens through the singing, blows out the candle Zayn stuck in one of the cupcakes for her, and passes the plate around.

As you help yourself to a cupcake and give the plate to Niall, Zayn clinks his water glass with his fork, clearing his throat to get everyone’s attention.

“Now, then. As we tuck into the delicious dessert Leems has made for us, I just want to say— Louis, it's been a real treat to have you with us, thank you so much for coming tonight.”

“Hear, hear!” Taylor echoes, miming a selfie as the table rumbles with appreciative applause and laughter.

“No, no, thank _you_ all for having _me_!” says Louis, grinning. “Really, it's been a pleasure.” He says it to the group at large, but it's your eyes he meets, heart-stopping and deliberate, like an arrow straight through your spine. You fumble with your fork, nearly send your cupcake flying behind you. Zayn notices, unfortunately, and his smile becomes ever so slightly puckish.

“So,” he continues, a note of mischief in his voice, tapping on his glass again, “if my math is correct, we should all get one cupcake, but we’ll have one left over at the end— and I think it would be fun if we had a little competition for it.”

“What do you have in mind?” Karlie asks, arching a playful eyebrow.

“Well,” says Zayn, receiving the plate with its solitary cupcake from Louis, “I was thinking, everyone should take a turn and make a case for why they're deserving of this excellent, moist, delicious cupcake. Tell us all what makes you worthy of its illustriousness.”

“I mean, I _am_ the birthday girl,” Gemma points out. “If anyone is worthy, it's me.”

“Well, not so fast,” says Zayn. “If it were me, I would nominate young Harry here for the cupcake.”

“Me?” you ask, bemused. “Why me?”

“Because you've completely fucked yourself over here, mate,” Zayn replies smoothly, eyes twinkling. “It's tragic. You somehow convince Louis Tomlinson to come here to dinner, he burns off all his tastebuds eating my cooking—”

“I did not!” Louis interjects. “Niall’s the one who needed the milk!”

“Don't think I didn't see you eyeing it longingly,” Zayn says, while Niall flips Louis an irreverent bird. “ _Anyway._ Point is, Harry, you got Louis here, and now he's never going to want to see you again because not only is he a fancy, famous film star far too fabulous for the likes of us, but you’ve gone and let him meet your closest friends, and now we can tell him all about your stress-baking in uni...your creepy bug collection when you were six...the fact that you're basically a nudist and hate wearing clothes…”

“Zaaaaaaayn,” you groan, cheeks hatefully and traitorously red as the table roars with laughter. “Zayner, I hate you. I deserve the cupcake for this.”

“Yes, O Tragic One, I suppose you do,” Gemma says, wiping her eyes.

“Hey, wait, if the cupcake criteria is a tragic life story, I think I deserve it!” Karlie declares. “I mean, three years ago, I was this dirt-poor student in fashion school in New York, totally miserable, eating Cup O’ Noodles every night and dating this guy I'd been seeing since college, thinking I was straight and it was my own fault he couldn't make me come and I wasn't in love with him. That's completely tragic! The tragedy of forced heteronormativity!”

“So how did you meet Taylor?” Louis asks with interest.

“Oh, _that_ ,” Karlie giggles.

“It was all me,” Taylor says, playfully nudging Karlie’s shoulder. “I was in Times Square one weekend, taking a walk and trying to get inspired— I'm a songwriter. And this random guy starts harassing me on the street. Starts following me. And I'm totally panicking, trying to figure out how to get away— he keeps calling himself my boyfriend, so I tell him I'm a lesbian. Which is at least half-true. But he doesn't believe me. So I'm looking around the crowd trying to find someone I can pretend is some long-distance girlfriend I'm finally reuniting with— when I see this angel sitting on the steps with a sketchbook.”

“Me!” Karlie confirms, beaming. “She walked right up to me, whispered the story in my ear, pulled me up to my feet and kissed me til I saw stars. Totally fearless. The guy yelled some slur at us and walked away, I realized my whole life is a lie and I'm gay as a rainbow, and a year later I married that girl and moved out here to London.”

“Okay, now, see, that disqualifies you from the tragic story competition,” Liam says. “You got a happy ending! Me, on the other hand—” He gestures down at himself. “One lousy morning, I'm half-asleep and trying to go downstairs for coffee, trip over my own feet, fall down the stairs and now I'm in this thing for life.”

His tone is light, matter-of-fact, but there is something tender in his brown eyes as he says it, as Zayn reaches a hand out to take his.

“But you're forgetting about the part where you're married to me, the best husband ever, who makes you delicious Pakistani food and loves feeling like every night is our honeymoon again because I get to carry you bridal style to our bed,” Zayn says, tone equally light but eyes soft. “Plus, you can make us both cupcakes any old time, so you're disqualified too. Think it's still Hazza in the running.”

“Definitely Hazza,” Niall chuckles. “You deserve it, giving us this story for the ages.”

“To Hazza it goes,” Zayn confirms.

Relieved, you reach across the table to collect your prize and hopefully end this torment at your expense— but then Louis interrupts, “Hey, what about me?”

“What about you?” asks Niall.

“Don't I get a shot at the cupcake too?”

“You think _you_ can out-tragic Harry Styles for the last cupcake?” Zayn raises an eyebrow.

“This is a very good cupcake, and my friends are very cruel,” you point out, meeting his gaze with interest. “Besides, you’re famous and successful, and you make millions of dollars a year, whereas I decidedly do not fit any of those criteria.” _And you're so beautiful my teeth ache, though that's neither here nor there._

“I only make millions now,” Louis says. “I didn't for most of my life. My father left my mother when I was a couple months old, and my mom divorced my stepdad when I was fifteen, and I had four younger sisters, so money was always tight. I worked every odd job you can think of before randomly getting cast in a face wash commercial. And...well, I'm a queer man in Hollywood now, which means millions of other people’s dollars ride on my image, and my team has decided my image can never include my real sexuality, so I don't get to be honest with anyone about who I am and what I want.”

He takes a deep breath, looks everyone in the eye turning turn before settling, in all his sudden vulnerable intensity, on you. “And what's craziest about it is, that it's so temporary. Fleeting. I got lucky on a couple of roles, and everything got out of hand so fast, but once I get a little older, and/or a little chubbier, and some newer, handsomer leading man comes on the scene who plays the game better than I do, my career will fall away just as fast as I got it— and I don't know what else I'm good at anymore. Besides pretending to be something I'm not.”

A long silence spirals and settles over the table like evening snow, cool and sobering. Something shy and a little wounded flares up inside of you, simultaneously respectful of and timid around his vulnerability. You feel yourself wanting to look at your friends’ faces for their reactions, but are drawn to Louis’s like an ocean tide to the impassive moon, an ephemeral connection that still tugs at something deeper than marrow. The sensation is as heady as it is unexpected. So you surprise yourself again, face cracking into an irrepressible grin.

“Nice try, gorgeous, but that's a pathetic attempt to hog the cupcake!” you tell him. “Gems over here used to play beauty parlor on me and give me the most horrifying haircuts that then got extensively photographed for our family albums. Can't beat that.”

Once more, the table bursts into laughter like the golden fizz of good champagne.

“That's true, and I'm still so sorry,” Gemma says, clapping you on the shoulder. “Zayner, give this man his well-earned cupcake.”

“Thank you!” You make grabby hands for the cupcake and take an enormous bite out of it, the purple frosting smearing on your chin and the tip of your nose. Taylor whips out her phone for a picture, to which you oblige with the obligatory groaning and protest, but you're laughing more than complaining, and it's Louis you can't stop looking at. Louis, whose expression is so inexplicably fond, even as he laughs along with everyone else.

Once dessert is duly consumed, and Gemma opens her gifts, fawning over new jewelry and a new purse and the spa day pass you bought her (“Make sure you take care of yourself too, sis”) Taylor is the first to offer Liam help with clean-up before she absconds for the night. Karlie and Niall hop up to help her, while you, Gemma, and Louis are shooed away with winks and blown kisses— though not before Taylor scores her pictures with Louis, taken with various poses and angles until she's satisfied. She all but swoons when he hugs her goodbye.

You hide your amusement in a bland smile, wave to your friends with devout gratefulness that the inevitable grilling from them can be put off to another, less overwhelming night, and see yourself and Louis out of the front door. Once it's closed behind you, and the two of you are alone on the quiet street once more, Louis throws his head back laughing in utter delight.

“I love your friends,” he says, so genuinely that you have no choice but to believe him. “Thank you for letting me come with you. Really.”

“We were all happy to have you,” you say, and it's not a lie. In fact, it feels like the truest thing you have ever uttered.

“I've never had a normal kind of evening like this with out couples before,” Louis admits, as the two of you start walking down the twisting sidewalk.

“Really? Never?"

“It's mostly parties,” he clarifies. “Never just...a meal at someone’s table.”

“Sounds lonely,” you observe.

“It is and it isn't,” Louis says. “Like most things, it's just. You know. Complicated.”

“You have a girlfriend, reportedly,” you point out.

His smile flickers moodily at that, like raw campfire light. “Yeah. Reportedly.”

“Do you want to tell me about it?” you ask. It's hard to keep the obvious hope out of your voice, glancing sideways at his impressive profile, backlit with the honey-gold of the streetlamps.

He thinks on it for a moment. “Not now, I think. I'm happy right now. And I want to focus on that.”

“You're right,” you agree quickly. “You're right, um, we can just walk—”

“Is this a garden?” Louis interrupts, crossing the street towards a wrought-iron gate door. “What is this here?”

“Private garden,” you answer. “Only the houses that live around this square get access to the garden. See—”

You point to a little sign next to the gate’s lock, explaining this policy. But Louis is more interested in peering through the slats at the gentle willow trees and flowering bushes just beyond his reach, a gleam you are coming to know (and dread a little) in his blue eyes.

“I want to climb in,” he declares.

“Yes, well— that'll be difficult, I think,” you tell him. “I mean, this gate, um—”

Embarrassed and somehow more nervous than usual, you give a timid attempt to hook the soles of your shoes on the gate and reach for a tree branch to help you climb the height of the gate. But as you attempt to pull yourself up, your foot slips, nearly sends you tumbling. “Oh, whoopsie daisies—”

“Whoopsie daisies? Did you just say whoopsie daisies?” It sounds even worse in Louis’s amused, incredulous American accent. Your face flushes from pale to purple-red.

“No. Of course I didn't. Because that would be ridiculous. I'm a manly man who is trying to hop a fence, as manly men do, except— ah, whoopsie daisies—”

Louis’s laugh is practically a cackle. “Here, let me give it a try,” he says, displacing you to the side as he finds his grip.

“I mean, it's more difficult than it looks—”

But before you can finish your thought, Louis catches hold of the branch that eluded you, and has already leapt down the other side of the fence with squirrel-like dexterity, grinning at you from the other side of the gate.

“Clearly I'm not very good at this kind of thing,” you tell him. “Sorry.”

“Don't worry.” Louis fiddles with the lock for a moment until it clicks free. “That's why you've got me.”

He opens the gate enough to let you through, then closes it behind you, very pleased with his own handiwork.

“Come on,” he says. “Let's look around.”

He leads you into the center of the park, the air sweet with honeysuckle, even quieter than the rest of Notting Hill. Most of the space is open grass, lined with unobtrusive trees and shrubbery— a perfect spot to read, or kick around a football on a lazy Sunday afternoon. Louis moves towards the middle of the garden, stares up at the sky and then at you, eyes fierce and glowing in the summer evening dark.

“Can I ask you a stupid, kind of nitpicky question?”

Your heart stumbles, like it skipped a step going downstairs. “Sure.”

“When you introduced me to everyone tonight, you told them I was your guest.” He's standing much too close, all of a sudden; close enough to see the fine fan of his eyelashes, every fleck and shade of blue in his irises. “Why did you say that instead of calling me your date?”

“It wasn't a terribly formal party,” you manage to stammer. It's hard to keep your thoughts together when he's this close, the scent of his skin so deliciously intoxicating. “And anyway, I didn't want to be...presumptive. I'm not sure what we’re doing here, exactly.” You swallow thickly, your tongue heavy in your mouth. “I just— we barely know each other, it's all been very fast, and—”

“Do you want us to know each other?” Louis interjects, soft as birdtalk.

“I don't think it's about that,” you say, as carefully as you know how, for your sake more than his. “I think it's about what's...possible.”

He mulls this over, lets the thought wash over him like low tide. “I'm in London until at least next week, when the movie premieres.”

“Okay.” You say it slowly, lingering on the word. “Well. You know where I live. And where I work. So I'll just be...here.”

Somehow, this remark makes Louis smile like the sweetest note on a violin. “You don't know what a good thing that is. To be present. To belong somewhere.”

And with that, as though he can't restrain himself any longer, he leans in and kisses you, real and purposeful, under the open sky. And as you deepen it gratefully, you find yourself remembering what Karlie said about her first kiss with her now-wife— how it felt like seeing stars. And not just seeing them on the insides of your eyelids, you think, wrapping your arms around him and pulling him closer— it's like the star is inside you too, replacing the conventional, mechanic heart in your chest with a nuclear sun.

Some part of you keeps hesitating, as though it's trying to wake you up from a dream, wondering when he’ll stop and put you back in your place. But he doesn't. He lets it go on and on, every place your bodies touch sparking like fireworks. You kiss until you're dizzy with it, heady and swollen with lust— and even then, letting your forehead rest against his so that you can hear the intimacy of your shared, stuttering breaths.

“Do you want to come back to mine for a nightcap?” you ask, nuzzling against his nose.

The groan is low and lovely in his throat, despite the regret in which it's soaked. “I can't,” he says. “Way too complicated.”

“And you're happy right now.”

He smiles into another kiss. “Mhmm.” And another. “Can we stay happy just like this for a little while longer?”

Stronger men than you would have struggled not to give that tender, plaintive voice anything it asked for. And anyway— you're happy too. Happier than you can remember being in living memory. Giddy on this, on the way it feels to have this man in your arms, seemingly as happy with you as you are with him.

So you stop trying to suppress it. Instead, allowing some of that light inside of you to burst through your smile and into one more kiss, long and exuberant. A triumphant symphony of a kiss. You let it be your answer to his question, the only one that matters tonight— and let it sing.

—

You half-expect an intervention when you get home twenty minutes later— Niall, maybe Zayn and Liam too, waiting for you in the living room with their inevitable questions. But, mercifully, the ground floor is dark and silent when you let yourself in; Niall’s light is on upstairs, but he lets the sound of your footfalls and the creak of the wood pass unremarked. You exhale with profound relief, crashing into your bed and only realizing now what a long, whirlwind day it's been, and how much you need the rest.

Sleep comes for you swiftly— and despite the continued fizzing inside your marrow, you succumb without a fight.

—

“Morning, Hazza,” Zayn greets you when you walk into the shop the next morning, making you jump so badly you nearly spill your coffee all over yourself.

“Zayner. You're up early,” you observe, joining him behind the register.

“Yeah. I slept well last night. Did you?” His eyebrows are arranged in such a poor caricature of subtle curiosity that you can't help but snort.

“I didn't sleep any differently than usual— which is to say, alone.”

“I know,” he confesses. “Niall texted me.”

You're not sure whether it's the confirmation of their secret you-related conversations, or the bright June morning and the heavy heat settling at the nape of your neck, or just a lingering trace of garden-trespassing rebellion from last night, but something in you snaps like sapling underfoot— a decisive impulse to face this situation head-on, instead of letting ambiguity fester.

“Listen,” you say, drawing yourself up to your full height, at least three inches taller than Zayn, “I know what you're worried about. I know I can't get attached, because the other night was just a freak accident, because he's a big famous film star with a big complicated life, but I'll have you know—”

“It's not just that,” Zayn interjects. “I mean, that's certainly a part of it, but it's also…” He sighs, seeming to weigh his words carefully. “Look, even if you brought over some guy from the supermarket, I'd probably be having this same conversation. I love you, mate, always have and always will, and while I'm the biggest supporter of you finally settling down with someone nice— I also remember when Nick happened. And kept happening. Everyone who was at dinner last night was also there then, picking up the pieces after he broke them.”

He pauses, eyes almost unbearably kind. “I don't think Louis is Nick. He's lovely, that much is obvious. And he clearly adores you—”

You feel your ears go red. “He doesn't _adore_ me, we hardly even—”

“He adores you,” Zayn says firmly. “But that can be as sticky as him not adoring you, you know? And he's got all kinds of personal and professional baggage besides, so just...be careful with your heart, mate, alright? It's damn precious.”

He claps you on the shoulder, pulls you in for a hug. You surprise yourself too, holding him a beat longer than he meant to stay. It's difficult to articulate, even in your own head, but you find yourself deeply touched.

“Thanks, mate,” you say, and mean it. “I will.”

“Right, so I'll leave it at that, and so will all of us,” Zayn says, “but only for now. Fully expect an intervention should things spiral from here. No one on Team Harry is going to let it get to Nick levels of crazy again.”

“Understood,” you say with a grin, turning to the register, as the two of you begin your workday in earnest.

—

It's not until later, when you're closing up the shop and Zayn has already gone home for the night, that your phone buzzes with a text.

_it's louis. want to have a drink w me at the savoy tonight?_

The little sun inside your chest glows extra bright at this modest handful of words, at the idea that he is thinking about you right now, a few miles away.

You type back, with no hesitation, _sure. in an hour?_

And Louis, not ten seconds later: _see you._

—

The next five days pass in the happiest of blurs— movie-montage style, spontaneous and colorful. You can practically hear the rollicking Sara Bareilles piano melody in the background, as you meet him for drinks, compete to knot cherry stems with your clever tongues, kiss the fruitiness right off his his lips in every quiet corner you can find like a couple of horny teenagers too breathless to wait, his kiss sweeter than anything you've ever been allowed to taste.

He has press to do sometimes, to promote his new film, but mostly Louis is close to his phone, texting you through the day while you're at work, thoroughly distracting and disarming in the casual philosophy and witty observations he freely imparts through text and emoji. He often has you in soundless giggles behind the register, telling you about his thoughts on the shortcomings of the English culinary scene (“as an American, I find it a violation of my human rights not to be offered free soda refills with my FRIES, not fucking chips”), as well as his adventures in London traffic (“I really thought I'd have to celebrate my next two birthdays in the car in Knightsbridge, probably arrange my own funeral on the A1; here lies Louis Tomlinson, a victim to British modernity”). You return in kind with tales of customer service woe (“Highlight of my day: caught a man on the security camera today trying to steal a book by putting it down his trousers, O Britain Hail to Thee”) but mostly you wait for him to text you, fascinated with the way he sees the world.

You start paying closer attention to his Twitter now, curious to know if the rest of the world has yet been blessed with his wit, but you're mostly disappointed there. His Twitter is primarily advertisements and promotions— though, he confesses to you that he has a secret private Twitter under a different name to engage with his own fans and speak more candidly about the world. _i haven't even told my handlers about it, because they would surely take it away, but it's my favorite hobby. some of my fans are the most gullible, batshit crazy people i’ve ever experienced firsthand. but that account is one of the few places i get to be unfiltered, laugh at memes and talk about lgbt rights and football scores. by which of course i mean the true and glorious american sport that has little to do with your feet. i wonder how that happened, linguistically. i’m going to google it_.

But when he's not firing off texts that make you laugh, Louis loves to ask you questions, especially when you meet him after work somewhere, a park or a coffee shop or an Indian restaurant that catches his fancy. Where you were born, how you grew up, how close you are to your family, what growing up was like. He seems riveted by every mundane detail, eyes so blue and expectant that they're like bridges over awkward stretches of halting silence, facilitating you through. You tell him as much as you know how to, and he listens intently, counters with even more questions.

You barely spend much time at home anymore, communicating with Niall mostly by text, praying that he hasn't let the health and hygiene of the house go to shit while left unsupervised. But you don't seriously want to go check on it— because Louis is here, adventurous and beautiful, and all of London suddenly opens up to the two of you like a cherry blossom in spring, full of places to meet and talk and enjoy each others’ company. Louis was right about being able to hide in plain sight; no one ever seems to notice the two of you, or bother your peace. Five days, nearly every available moment spent together when you're not working— and nobody stops you. No hand of God reaches down from the summer clouds to pluck him away from you or smack your cheek for your audacity. There is only the two of you, wrapped up in each other.

While Louis becomes increasingly free with his kisses when you're alone, he draws the line at sex, and at spending the night together. There are a couple of moments, when things get heated and both of you are sporting stiff, obvious hard-ons in your jeans; when Louis pauses with pain in his face and has to take a few deep breaths before cooling the situation down. And you wish he wouldn't— wish he would walk you back against the wall and sink his teeth into your shoulder and just finish what he started— but his discomfort, while verbally unstated, is plain in his body language. He doesn't want to go there, no matter what his body aches for, and you accept this with some sorrow, but always solemn respect. Kiss his nose and take him by the hand to look at flowers, or appreciate the vibrancy of London street life, always someone or something quirky around to marvel at.

But also built into the rule about sex is a quietly impending sense of anxiety. Louis’s premiere falls on a Thursday, and after that, for all he wants to debate the merits of various biscuit brands or extol upon his newfound love for Yorkshire tea, he hasn't really told you what his immediate plans are. You get the sense that they are perhaps in flux— but Louis so rarely talks shop with you. And, much as you love and cling to the time you get to spend together, you are afraid to put a pin in this bubble, and ruin what you can't believe you are lucky enough to experience in the first place.

Zayn and Niall mostly stay out of your way, letting you come but mostly go at your own leisure, and for this you are grateful. There is so much going on at once— an intense present, with too slim a past and too vague a future— that you aren't sure you could answer to anyone if asked about what you're doing, or what it means, or what you want. Or what you are too nervous to articulate that you want.

It's so good, as it is. Cuts you to the bone with how good it is, how vulnerable you are and how many colors have lit up beneath your skin. Your instant chemistry, and how innocently, earnestly, you've let it flood through your delicate veins.

You can hear Zayn in your head, begging caution. _Just be careful with your heart, mate._ You only wish you knew what exactly that means in practical terms, when Louis is so devastatingly good, and you are so shyly, tumultuously, overflowing with all that he is, and all that he makes you wish you could be too.

—

The night before the _Midnight Memories_ premiere, Louis makes a reservation for a fancy little Italian restaurant in Westminster, which is probably the nicest place you've ever eaten in. You feel distinctly out of place, maroon jeans and your curly hair tucked behind your ears; but Louis just squeezes your hip, whispers in your ear, “Don't worry. Everyone who eats here does so because they feel they have something to prove. It's all bullshit.”

“Is that what we’re doing too?” you ask.

“No, not us. We’re here because the risotto, if served at the next UN Assembly, could very conceivably create the goodwill necessary to forge a lasting global peace.”

“So you've been here before,” you say with a grin.

“Yes. Invited by the producer of the movie premiering tomorrow when I was still being wooed for the role.”

He winks as the waiters pull out your chair for you, and pour out some water in slender, tastefully extravagant crystal glasses. You take a long sip, glancing around at all the decor, the impeccably well-dressed people, and through the outrageously expensive menu.

“I think I'll try this shrimp pasta. It costs several months worth of the beans on toast I often eat for dinner.”

Louis chuckles. “Alright. But then when you try my risotto and fall in love with it, you won't be allowed to steal it.”

“Deal.”

You shut your menu and push it aside, drinking in the sight of Louis in his blazer and light pink collared shirt, which brings out the brightest hues in his radiant eyes. He smiles as he watches you watch him, so appealingly at home in your eager gaze.

The waiter returns to take your orders— then, once he's disappeared, Louis leans in a little closer across the table, expression vaguely challenging.

“Can I ask you a personal question, Harry?”

Your eyes widen with caution. “Okay.”

“You've mentioned your ex, Nick, before, but not in much detail.” To Louis’s credit, his tone remains steady, and his eyes remain locked in with yours, as he speaks. “Can you tell me more about that story?”

You sigh, heart sinking like a sunset behind a cloud of heavy gloom. You should have seen this coming. You let your gaze slip, avert down to your hands in your lap, picking nervously at your fingernails.

“Umm. Well…I’ll tell you about Nick, but only after you tell me about Eleanor,” you say, braver than you feel.

For a moment, Louis’s face goes blank, pinched of color. But, after a few long seconds, he sighs, and gives in.

“That's fair. It's probably about time I told you about her anyway.”

You sit up a little straighter in your chair, at attention.

“The Eleanor stuff...it's not really my choice, is the thing,” he says, twirling his fork between his fingers. “She's an actress, lower B list trying to claw her way up, and it's mostly a PR arrangement between our managers. On my end, Simon wants me to appear acceptably heterosexual with her on my arm, while her people want my presence to raise her profile. They call it on-again, off-again for the rags because then we can get together and break up conveniently for our project timetables and add some edge for the fans to lap up. They love the speculation; my people love the advertising and social media clicks. It’s a disgustingly symbiotic relationship.”

“Do you...like her at all?” you ask. “Like, personally?”

“Definitely not romantically,” Louis says. “Personally, she's okay. Not as vile as some of the actresses they've tried putting me with. She mostly does what she's contractually obligated to do with minimal fuss, and goes home. I hate pretending to be something I'm not, and she resents that she needs to grub like this to get the roles she wants, and we kind of just...hate the game while we play it next to each other. But since we don't actively hate each other, our teams are thrilled, and draw out the soap opera as long as they can.”

“So...have you ever been in a long-term relationship you've actually wanted to be in?” In all the time you and Louis have spent the last few days, this is the one subject he has largely avoided.

“Mmmm...not really. I’ve been involved with a few people over the years, but never for long and always in secret. Simon, for all the time and energy he spends making me famous, is a notorious homophobe.”

“So he doesn’t know about me, either.”

“It’s better that way,” Louis assures you. “Trust me.”

“I do,” you say, the words spilling from your lips before you can stop them. A brilliant smile flickers at the corners of his mouth.

“Now, your turn,” he says, as a waiter arrives with a bottle of wine and an impeccable wedge salad for each of you. “Tell me about Nick.”

You take a taste of your wedge salad, buying time. You chew it slowly, trying to decide which words to use. It's been a long time since you've had to tell someone this story; your closest friends witnessed it all in real time, and don't wish to revisit those memories any more than you do.

“Well...I started seeing Nick in uni. I was studying history and politics, and he was studying literature and film-making. He was the first man I ever dated seriously; I'd only come out about six months earlier. He was into the London music scene and the club scene and the gay scene; basically everything I had only seen in films. We moved in together my last year of uni, and lived together until it went to shit, and I got a good deal on the house with Zayn. Pooled every cent we had into it, and used it as collateral to get a loan and open the shop. It gave me distance from Nick, and let me have my own life, do what I wanted to do. But I stayed with him on and off for a while longer, til I found out he'd been seeing people behind my back literally since we got together in uni.”

“Really?” Louis looks horrified.

“Yeah. One of his friends was really smashed one night, told me everything. Said he felt sorry for me. Zayn and Niall told me it was an abusive relationship, that him cheating on me— the couple of times I did know about— and constantly putting down my degree and my bookstore idea was him manipulating and abusing me.”

You sigh shakily. Carefully. “But it didn't feel like it, really, at the time. He was a dick, but he was all I knew. What I thought love was. Compromise, and forgiveness, and whatever. I didn't know how to leave him. Until I finally started focusing on my work, and stopped taking his calls.”

Louis is quiet for a moment. “It must have taken a lot of courage to leave him. It was a really brave thing to do.”

His words are soft, glowing like candlelight. But you shake your head, smiling wryly.

“Gemma told me to dump him for years before I did. And Zayn. And Niall, who barely knew me when he moved in. But it still took me ages to do it. I was...afraid. Of being on my own, romantically. Which is not a great reason to stay with a serial philanderer, all things considered.”

“You were in love,” Louis says simply. “But you did leave him. And seriously, that's brave as fuck. Some people never manage to pull it off.”

You shrug, blushing, embarrassed now as you pick at your salad. But Louis still has eyes only for you, barely interested in his food as he appears to x-ray you across the table, somehow searching past muscle and sinew into the murkier regions of your darker corners.

“I can only imagine what all you went through,” he says, “but as the child of divorce— two of them— the only thing I feel like I know about relationships is that, you can't settle for any less than the love you deserve. And you didn't deserve what he gave you.”

“It's not something I love to discuss,” you say, still staring down at your salad as you drag your fork through a puddle of sauce. “Just— it’s over now. And I'm glad it’s over. And I'm just trying to...I mean, I've moved on, but, like...I'm trying to keep moving on.”

“A worthy and understandable goal. Thank you for trusting me with the story.” The naked kindness in his eyes reminds you of Zayn, somehow. Makes your stomach twist with raw nerves, overwhelming in their multiplicity. You squirm a little in your seat, and take a deep breath.

“So. Your premiere. It’s tomorrow, right?”

“Yeah.” Louis clears his throat, expression distantly uncomfortable. “Yeah, I walk the carpet, hordes of people attempt to blind and deafen me with their cameras and their screaming. Pretty standard. But I'll admit, no matter how much I do it or how fake and unsavory it can be, the glamor of it is so surreal that I'm never fully used to that part of the job.”

“Which premiere was the worst one you ever did?” you ask excitedly.

“ _God_ , it was maybe my third or fourth one, for this Tom Cruise action thing I had a minor role in—”

Louis tells the story with some enthusiasm, describing how he managed to fall on his face on the red carpet and nearly brought another actress down with him. While he’s talking, your food arrives, and you dig into your pasta with interest. Turns out there is a reason it costs so much more than beans on toast— it is perhaps the best dinner you’ve ever eaten in your life— but the real star of the show, as Louis had indeed warned you, is the risotto, which he lets you try with such a smug look on his face that you are desperate to prove him wrong. Except, that he’s right, more than right, and you nearly go cross-eyed when you swallow around your first bite.

“Oh my god,” you say. “ _Oh my god_.”

“I know.” Louis chuckles as you steal another bite from his dish. “You should be glad I’m not the kind to say ‘I told you so’ more than once. Because...I did tell you so.”

“You did, you really did,” you say, giving Louis his fork back with great reluctance. “Still. Try some of this pasta.”

Louis obliges, and nods approvingly. “Good choice, I like it.”

“I’m willing to split, in exchange for—”

“I don’t like it that much,” Louis laughs.

For several minutes, the two of you share a companionable silence as you work through your respective dishes. Louis does relent soon enough, and lets you have a bit more of his risotto in exchange for some of your shrimp, and you try not to look too delighted by it as you practically lick the risotto off your plate. Louis’s face is so expressive, so full of life and drama that even when there are no words between the two of you, you still have more fun with him than you’ve ever had with anyone. You settle into dinner, and expend as much energy as possible not to think about Louis’s premiere tomorrow, and how he has yet to say anything about being in London after it.

As you’re eating, however, you’re more aware of random snatches of conversation from the tables around you, discussing various subjects at varying volumes. You imagine yourself to be eavesdropping with a degree of subtlety while working through your pasta, but then Louis asks, “Oh, are you people-watching? Or, listening? Hear anything good?”

“Not yet,” you say.

The couple beside you is married, more interested in their phones than in each other or anyone around them. You stop paying them any mind, and listen for the group of four at the table behind Louis’s head, who are laughing uproariously about something. There is a young woman, sleek blonde hair and doll-like features, with three men not much older than her, all relatively identical in anonymous business suits, sharing a couple of appetizer plates. One of the men is saying something in loud, ostensibly impressive tones— his accent is British— holding court while the rest nod and cheer him on. Waggling your eyebrows at Louis, you incline your head towards them, and try to make out what they're saying. Court Jester sounds passionate on his subject— which, as you lean forward to hear a bit better, is, ironically enough, Hollywood.

“The damn lot of them, so mighty and superior to the rest of us because they're overpaid and underfed,” he's saying, slapping his hand on the table for emphasis. “And then they presume to have an opinion on _politics_ , too, as though anyone asks a trained circus monkey for input before signing a bill in Parliament, or Congress!”

Your eyes meet Louis’s, and Louis bursts into quiet giggles. “Of course we Americans ask trained circus monkeys for input,” he whispers, “or we wouldn't have a Congress at all, would we!”

“The European Union is a fucking tragedy economically, and the Muslims all want us stoned and decapitated, and taxes are just fucking insufferable these days,” he continues, “but sure, let’s go ahead and report what Justin fucking Bieber posted on Twitter yesterday.”

“You're so right,” the woman says. “Lowest common denominator entertainment. Country’s going to the dogs. And Hollywood doesn't care, because we keep going to the movies and practically direct-depositing our paychecks into their bank accounts!”

“All of them going on about Brexit, and Trump,” Business Suit 2 sniffs. “Like they have any idea what it's like out here for normal people. Bunch of out-of-touch faggots.”

“They are, they're all faggots,” Court Jester agrees heartily, waving his phone in his hand. “I mean, I just opened Facebook right now, and Louis fucking Tomlinson is trending at the top of the news because of some faggot charity he supports and some film he's in is coming out tomorrow.”

“Really?” You pull out your phone too— screen still cracked— and check. “Wow, so you are. Believe in Magic ball, it's in a week, you and all these celebrities are going to support pediatric cancer, that sounds so lovely!”

“Apparently, sick children are fags, though, and so is anyone who helps them.” Louis tries to chuckle it off as a joke, but his smile is more of a grimace, eyes stormy.

“What the fuck does this Louis Tomlinson bloke even contribute to society?” Court Jester is saying now, as Louis’s cheeks go a delicate pink. “Besides charity shit that's really about his own image and the corporate sponsorship money? He may parade around with some hot piece of ass, that girlfriend of his, but really, he's nothing but a faggot with an inside-out cunt for a dick, and—”

You're standing up before you can even register it, before Louis can pull you down or you can overthink this. The blood in your ears is flush warm with the wine you've drunk, and you find your feet guiding you back to the table of strangers, who all raise their eyebrows incredulously at your approaching form.

“Can we help you?” asks Court Jester, affronted and haughty.

“Yes, actually.” You're not properly tipsy yet, but the sensation of confrontation is enough to make you feel woozy with both nerves and power. “I wish I hadn't overheard your conversation, but I did, and I just—”

“What, are you high, mate?” scoffs Business Suit. “It was a private conversation, and it's none of your business.”

“Sure, except, we’re in public, and you're using awful slurs where people can hear you, slandering a nice person who's trying to make the world just a slightly happier place by donating his time and attention—”

“What, are you a fag too?” Blondie snorts derisively. “Seriously, hop off his prick and fuck off.”

You feel Louis come up behind you before you hear him; his hand, warm and solid on your shoulder, grounding you in place. The effect is as instantaneous on the group at the table as it is on you: all of them recognize him at once, and all the color and swagger drains from their faces like it's been vacuumed out of them.

“Mate—”

Court Jester starts to rise, but Louis cuts in, polite tone steely and diamond-sharp, “No, no, no need to explain. I owe _you_ an apology for my friend here; he gets rather sensitive about what I'm sure you believe is just harmless locker room banter. That's his mistake, not yours. But, truth be told, I'm of the opinion that you're all heinous human beings and I'm sorry our paths ever crossed, but— well, what do I know, anyway.”

He reached for Court Jester’s half-consumed white wine, and drains the entire glass in one almighty sip. He also takes one of their bruschetta pieces for good measure, says through a large mouthful, “I hope you choke on the rest of that— and good night.”

He steers you by the shoulder away from the table, making the exit movie-smooth as you abandon your half-finished plates and move to the entrance of the restaurant. While you stand, open-mouthed and quaking, Louis explains what happened to the hostess, who looks horrified and hastily offers to fetch a manager. Louis declines, writes down his credit card number on her notepad, and wishes her a good night, once again steering you outside the front doors and into the balmy summer night, the busy street and golden street lamps. You can only gape, eyes wide, as he breathes heavily, hands on his hips and pacing.

“I— I can't believe you said that,” you say at last.

“I can't believe you went up there at all.” Louis runs a harried hand through his hair. “Shit. _Shit_.”

“I’m sorry, I just, I couldn't let it stand,” you say, almost apologetically. “I’d had some wine, and they were horrible, and I just—”

But Louis cuts you off with a kiss, right there on the open sidewalk, mouth open and sloppy, traces of his unfinished risotto on his lips.

“Let’s go back to the Savoy for a drink,” he says. “A real one. That wine did nothing for me. I need gin.”

Still stunned from the force of his kiss, you wordlessly let him hail a taxi and climb in after him, let him grip your knee like a lifeline until his breathing calms down to almost-normal. When the two of you get out at the Savoy, Louis heads straight to the bar, where he asks for a gin and tonic, as well as a shot of tequila. He takes the shot first, the golden column of his throat undulating with the influx of liquid; shivers with the harshness of it, then sips moodily at the gin and tonic, while you quietly sit on the bar stool beside him and order a vodka cranberry.

It isn’t until you’re almost halfway done with your drink that Louis finally sets his glass down and turns to face you properly. While at dinner he had been bubbly, luminous, he looks exhausted in this light. But his eyes— such a haunting, arctic blue— are solemn.

“I didn’t order the gin because of those people,” he tells you tersely. Almost grimly. “The tequila shot would have taken care of any feelings I had about the shit they were saying. I won’t pretend like it doesn’t get to me sometimes, because it does, but I can recover fairly quickly, because you have to when you’re in this business.”

He pauses, and somehow that short absence of sound feels like the breaking of a bone, harsh and agonizing. “The reason I ordered the gin was because of you. You were adorably heroic, defending my honor. And I love that you cared enough to march over there on my behalf. But...there’s the rub, right? You were chivalrous. And I love your chivalry. And...and it can’t be that way. Not this fucking fast.”

He rubs his face in his hands, sounding a bit like a tea kettle on its way to boiling point as he exhales into his palms. You find yourself at a loss, turmoil churning in your stomach and clashing terribly with the vodka you just ingested.

When Louis emerges, it is with an air of resignation. Defeat. He asks you, in a low voice vibrating with nerves, “Do you want to come upstairs with me?”

The question lands in your chest like a basketball in a kiddie pool. Splatters. “Are you sure? Wouldn’t it be...complicated?”

“Undoubtedly.” His bruised, caught expression doesn’t change. “Do you want to come upstairs with me?”

It is genuinely impossible to tell whether he wants you to say yes or no. His conflict is obvious, and yet— his mouth is so soft. Parted slightly, as though, consciously or not, it is waiting to be kissed. Your drink, half-finished on the counter, seems to sit miles apart from his two empty glasses. You can see Zayn’s mother-hen pout swimming in your mind’s eye, Gemma’s and Niall’s and Liam’s too. But Louis’s delicate face cuts through them all, and the resignation in his eyes blooms in your chest too.

“Yeah. I do.”

He needs no further invitation. Rises to his feet, takes your hand, and leads you into the elevator. Interlaces his fingers with yours, breath catching in his throat and in yours. Falls on you in a kiss right as the doors open, and stumbles out into the hallway still kissing you, your bodies a confused tangle of staggering feet and tangled arms and elbows smashing into walls, hungry, starving kisses that plunder yet do not quench. His erection presses against yours through the two layers of your jeans, and you nip his lower lip in punishment, leave it pink and swollen.

He fumbles for his hotel key card as your mouth travels to his neck, the back of his ear. He moans in mingled need and frustration as he manages to feed the card with shaking fingers to the door, while your hands fist his hair. Finally, the door opens, and he slams you against the wall so hard it’s as though the reverberations of your shoulder blades are like church bells, ringing through every cell of your soft tissue. He ruts his hips against yours, a guttural sound in his throat as he swallows your whine with another kiss. One hand is grabbing at your scalp, while the other searches for the light switch.

But there is someone else in the room— another startled gasp, that wrenches you apart in utter astonishment.

Even in your confusion and aching lust, you recognize him: Aaron Rhodes. Tall, blonde, dark eyes. An actor in one of the soap operas Gemma likes, and also one of Louis’s co-stars in _Midnight Memories_. Currently sitting on Louis’s sofa as though he belongs there, in a pair of blue jeans and a flannel shirt, despite the summer weather. He looks scandalized, looking from Louis to you and back, frown deepening as he does so.

“Louis.”

“Aaron.” Louis’s hand remains encircled around your wrist. “What are you doing here? How did you even know where I was?”

“Asked Simon,” says Aaron, standing up to his full height. “Told him I was coming up to surprise you. But I guess you had a surprise for me too.”

“This...has nothing to do with surprising you, or anyone.” There is heat in Louis’s tone now. “Seriously, what are you doing here?”

“I missed you. I wanted to see you.” Aaron says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“You didn’t tell me you had a boyfriend.” Your voice doesn’t even sound like your own, uneven and oddly breathless.

“Because...because I didn't think I did.” Louis frowns at Aaron, tightens his grip on your wrist. “Harry, I’m not— we’re not—”

“Are you kidding, Lou?” Aaron arches an eyebrow, crosses his arms over his chest. “We spent the entirety of filming hooking up, and we weren't sleeping with other people even afterwards when you came over in LA, and somehow you think I'm not your boyfriend? I mean, shit, I just thought, with our premiere tomorrow and me flying in a few hours ago, you'd be happy to see me— you were when you called me a couple of weeks ago in New York—”

“There’s been a mistake,” you say hoarsely, shaking your arm hard to relinquish Louis’s hold. “I, um. I should just. Go.”

“No. No, please, don’t.”

There is an edge of real distress in the way he says this, but it’s like you’ve frozen over suddenly, all the urgency and intensity of the evening evaporated by the presence of this other man in the room, this blindingly predictable state of affairs— Louis, taken, and you, the fool who didn’t realize. He could have physically punched you in the diaphragm and you would have felt less winded, less viscerally violated. You wrench yourself out of his grip, turn on your heel and walk out through the open door on autopilot— but Louis follows you out, calling your name with a desperation that somehow leaves you hollower with every repetition.

“Harry— Harry, Harry, please wait. Harry, you have to hear me out, Harry, please—”

“I’m well accustomed to being cheated on,” you hiss at him, whirling around to face him with trembling fingers and weightless feet. “But being the one someone cheats with— _that’s_ new for me. Thanks for at least flipping the script this time.”

“Harry, I swear, this isn't what it looks like—”

“He seems to believe that you've been dating for months!” You hate the way your voice cracks, the way you feel cornered against the wall as Louis crowds in front of you, trying to stop you from leaving. “Why would he believe that if you weren’t?”

“Because— because he’s new to Hollywood, he’s new to all this, and he thought costars having sex in trailers between takes amounted to a relationship when it _didn’t_ — and in New York I was just drunk, and lonely, and I needed someone to get me off, and he happened to be around, and that was it, that was all it was—”

“And me? What am I? Just that guy with that stupid bookshop in Notting Hill, who was a laugh for a few days but then it was back to real life?” You feel sick to your stomach, to your very bones.

Yet, Louis persists, “Harry, no, it’s not like that—”

“Well, I don’t want to know what it’s like.” You wipe your eyes with the backs of your hands, slam your fist into the elevator call button. “I’m going home. Please don't try to contact me, alright?”

Only now does he let you go in earnest, stepping back and watching helplessly as you step into the elevator and avoid his gaze as the doors shut in front of you. You can scarcely breathe for a moment, clutching the handrail in the elevator for support as it plunges back towards the ground floor, back to the lobby and the street and the night air, too warm to be bracing but just warm enough to feel like a brief hug after a terrible disappointment.

You take your broken phone out of your pocket and order yourself an Uber, mind like well-scrambled eggs as you almost step into two wrong cars before getting into the right one and allowing it to carry you in retreat back to the safety of home. You let yourself inside and slouch past the distantly pungent ecosystem of the Niall-infested kitchen sink into the more fragrant living room, where somehow, incredibly, Niall and Zayn and Liam are all cuddled up in blankets watching _Iron Man_ over caramel popcorn.

They all look up at you in bemusement when you enter the room, likely looking as terrible as you feel, but their expressions cloud almost at once with recognition and sympathy. Niall, who is sprawled over the smaller couch across from the one Zayn and Liam are sharing, sits up and puts his bowl of popcorn aside, opening his arms to you. Fighting back a sob like a floodgate, you let yourself collapse into Niall’s embrace, and bury your face into his shirt. He wipes his sticky fingers on the side of his jeans, and starts stroking your hair with salty-sweet fingers.

“We’ll all talk in the morning,” he murmurs. “Just rest and watch this for now. Alright?”

The most you can manage is a weak nod and grateful silence, as the movie plays on.

—

The immediate aftermath feels a little like a long bout of flu— your head stuffy and slow, a dull but persistent ache radiating through your whole body, while your sister and your friends hover around you with sympathy and distractions. Zayn, cheerful and overly helpful at work; Liam, sending plenty of baked goods by Zayn’s hand; Gemma, texting and “popping by” most days for a light chat and some of Liam’s pastries; Niall, spending many an evening at your side watching horror films and political dramas carefully selected for their conspicuous lack of romantic subplots. They don’t ask many questions, and you aren’t in the mood to offer many details, at least not at first.

In your humiliation— the cold, cruel splash of reality that has soaked through the gossamer-thin fantasy you let yourself get lost in— there is now a tenderness that you carry around like a broken chandelier inside your ribcage. You foolishly, recklessly, let yourself hope, and now here is the ensuing consequence.

It hurts. You hurt. And it rips, ripples, all the way through you.

You are fully aware that you have no business taking this so hard. You absolutely knew better than to get attached. Zayn did warn you, and you blew past him like a broken stop sign, left dangling in the wind in a cloud of your racing dust. You _knew_ — and yet it all fell away like petals in rain when you were with him, so obliviously warm in the perpetual glow he seemed to emit— so enamored by how it felt to be in a room with him— that you tumbled headfirst into a rookie’s quagmire, mistaking base companionship for intimacy.

You feel ridiculous, cheeks flushed and insides squirmy, when you go back over it in your head. In hindsight, everything looks transparently obvious. It was like that with Nick, too; the world clearer, when he wasn’t in the room to fill your mind with perfumed haze, justifying and distorting and batting his eyelashes at you until you wavered, then cracked. Distance helped with him, so you resolve to survive again the same way— tending to your shop, and the kitchen your roommate seems determined to keep filthy, and the friends who have weathered more dire cataclysms with you than this.

But where with Nick, you were able to impose some distance to rebuild yourself in peace, Louis offers no such respite. As you seek to withdraw, he seems to multiply. His film is advertised on YouTube so often that you actually relent and subscribe to YouTube Red to avoid the ads on your computer and your phone— but even then, you can’t avoid his face plastered on bus stops and billboards, a hundred printed versions of his blue eyes staring down on you like Fitzgerald’s metaphor resplendently realized. Your daily media scroll is plagued by critical buzz about this film, its surprising depth and the complexity of _his_ acting in particular.

It’s only made worse when the Believe in Magic ball is held a week after _Midnight Memories_ arrives in cinemas: overnight, he becomes a topic of public interest for his heartfelt speech about human rights and his philanthropic generosity, everyone from AJ+ to The Huffington Post gushing and half in-love with him while you are still trying, so desperately, to exorcise him from your heart. It is actually, physically painful, watching Louis Tomlinson shine from a distance when you have seen, and known, another, different Louis up close.

Louis Tomlinson is born for the spotlight, the sharp planes of his cheekbones catching the light of the red carpet such that he looks like a lovingly-sculpted statue in an art museum; but Louis was even lovelier when he was sitting at Zayn and Liam’s dining table, laughing with crinkled eyes and a bit of cilantro between his teeth at some joke Gemma told. Louis Tomlinson has an accomplished resume the length of your arm, summarized in every article published about _Midnight Memories_ and the Believe in Magic ball, while Louis had you in stitches telling you about his first shitty jobs in Manhattan trying to make it as an actor.

Louis Tomlinson is a name and a picture on the Internet, his life a cardboard diorama that was never supposed to be real to you. But the earth went sideways on its axis, and now you’ve tasted Louis’s kiss, gin and a little lime and an unexpected sweetness; felt his tiny frame warm and radiating with life in your hands when he shoved you up against the wall of a hotel hallway. You know what it’s like to have those blue eyes in all the posters zero in on you and you alone, dizzying in their intensity.

To unlearn it all— to pretend that it didn’t happen, or that it didn’t matter— is nothing short of agonizing.

Building the right antibodies to this one will take a damn sight longer than fending off a mere flu.

—

“Mate.” Zayn broaches the conversation with obvious care, as the heat of July sticks to the back of your necks in the breathless, claustrophobic bookshop. “I know how what I'm about to say is going to sound, but hear me out first, alright?”

“This sounds promising,” you mutter, taking a swig of your water bottle. It is as lukewarm and disappointing as your patience this afternoon, after both a heat wave and a mediocre sales week.

“Liam and I were talking, and...we want to see _Midnight Memories_ this weekend, after all the good reviews it got and everything. And, when I mentioned it to Niall...he said he and Gemma had been thinking of going as well.” Zayn twists his wedding band around and around his finger, like he always does when he's nervous. “We all want to go together on Saturday. And I think you should come with us.”

“No.” You say it flatly. Automatically.

“I just think it could be good for you!” Zayn’s tone is cajoling, but firm. “An exposure therapy kind of thing, right? I know what he did was shitty, and everyone avoided that film in solidarity til now, but. It's been a month. And you've still been pining. And it's time to move on.”

Your stomach twists in on itself. “I’m fine.”

“Then come see _Midnight Memories_ with us,” he says. “Come hang out with people who love you.”

“I've been doing nothing but hanging out with the lot of you,” you point out. “I've gained a kilo and a half thanks to Liam alone.”

“What nonsense, you're as fit as ever.” Zayn grins, though his expression is gentle. “Come on, Haz. You know your heart’s not been in it since... _then_. You've been on autopilot. And this is me, as your best friend who's known you for most of both our lives, telling you that you need to pull yourself together a bit. Come back to us.”

Your instinct is to be irritated, swat Zayn’s well-meaning pop-psych away and keep yourself on ice in survival mode as you have been. Staring down at the ground while you deepen the well-worn rut in the road you've created between the bookshop and the house with the blue door, that thousand yard stretch in which most of your life is confined— a kind of self-defense by containment. It's what you know, what feels okay right now.

But even so, there is something in Zayn’s voice, in the empathy you feel like concentrated sunlight coming from his large, unfairly lovely doe eyes, that makes the words in your throat dissolve into surrender. You know he wouldn't ask unless he'd thought this through and felt strongly about it.

So you sigh, let the summer grumpiness abate from your features for a moment.

“Okay. Okay. I still contest the charge of pining, but fine, I'll go with you to the cinema,” you say.

Zayn beams. “Great! I'll let Liam know, he's coordinating tickets.”

“And, um— I can cook that night before or after the show, if you all want.” You run your hand through your sweaty curls, the heat in your cheeks not wholly related to the temperature of the shop. “Can have the gang over for taco salads, maybe. Get Niall to clean the goddamn kitchen. Make a night of it.”

“Yes!” Zayn throws an arm around your shoulders, squeezes you into him. You're certain you smell horrendous, but he, as usual, is doused in a mouthwatering cologne that somehow renders him immune from the normal pitfalls of human sweat production. Typical.

“You smell too good for a day like this, Zayner,” you say accusingly. “Get away from me and do fifty push-ups before you touch me again.”

Zayn chortles. “I think I’ll work up that sweat by going out to get a frappucino instead. Want one?”

“Extra whipped cream, please.”

“You got it.” Zayn gives you one more hug, and a kiss on the temple before he scampers off into the sun.

—

The group does end up coming by yours and Niall’s place for taco salads on Saturday night before your seven o’clock showing— Zayn, Liam, Gemma, Gemma’s friend Ashley, and even Taylor and Karlie on a rare night off. Karlie and Taylor bring two pitchers of sangria, and Liam some flan for dessert, so dinner is an enjoyably chaotic affair held in your recently-scrubbed living room, everyone sprawled over the sofas and floor and sampling a little of everything.

You're having a good time, for once, mindful of what Zayn said about being present and coming out of your own head a bit, engaging as genuinely as you know how— when Taylor, smacking her lips on her third glass of sangria, brings the topic of conversation back to The Incident.

“I'm so glad you're holding up after all _that_ , Haz,” she says meaningfully, eyes wide with emotion. “I was kind of surprised when Liam said you were coming tonight, but I think it's good that you are.”

“Thanks, Tay.” Your smile is tight-lipped over a long sip of your own drink.

“You need this,” she continues. “And it’s time to get back out there, too. Go on some dates, play the field. I could totally set you up!”

“You know, I'm not sure that's the best idea,” you say hastily, nearly choking on your drink.

“Why not?” Gemma, who is far too sober to have the excuse of alcohol behind her, sounds intrigued. “Dates are a good way to meet people— and if you do it through friends, you don't have to bother with apps. And anyway— Ash, what about Xander, you reckon? From work? I was just thinking the other day that he and Haz would hit it off.”

“Xander’s been having rotten luck on Tinder lately,” Ashley confirms. “I can talk to him about setting something up if you want.”

“I know Xander!” Karlie exclaims. “We went out with a group a couple of times! Harry, you'd really like him! Totally your type. Nerdy but funny, doesn't like to get too crazy; he was done with clubbing after, like, an hour, and left early. Oh, and there's this other guy I know who's just split up with a dancer at the NYCB. Jeff Azoff. You'd probably like him too!”

“K, in what world could I ever compete with a professional ballet dancer?” you ask, alarmed, flashing back to earlier today almost pulling out your back trying to reach the TV remote when your foot sent it flying across the room.

“He actually dumped her for her mind instead of her body, believe it or not; and he’s told me he prefers men anyway,” Karlie insists. “Plus, like— with Jeff, or with Xander, you don't have to throw yourself in the thick of it right away. We could make it a group thing! Like with Jeff, Taylor and I can invite him out for drinks and then stay with you the whole time. Like a facilitated date.”

“Great idea,” Niall chimes in. “Also, do you, by any chance, have numbers for any other single NYCB dancers interested in charming primary school teachers?”

“I think I might, actually,” Karlie says, pulling out her phone to check, while Niall’s eyebrows nearly disappear into his hairline.

“ _Anyway_ ,” says Gemma, smirking, “Ashley and I will talk to Xander, Harry, and we can set up a group drinks do for you. So if it goes terribly, we’ll cover for you and you can make your escape through the back. You barely have to do a thing besides show up and act halfway like a relatively normal human being.”

“Sounds foolproof to me,” Zayn says, both amused and excited.

“Guess my mind’s been made up for me,” you answer, only half sarcastically. But if the table senses your discomfort, they don't do much to ameliorate it, grinning amongst themselves and letting the conversation flow into another subject. In their minds, they've done you a generous favor— and you have to admit, Karlie and Gemma’s pitches do sound fairly idiot-proof at first blush. Even you can manage to show up at a bar at a given hour, have drinks with your friends and also one stranger, and survive unscathed. You sigh to yourself, withdrawing slightly inside of yourself, eating your food while everyone chatters and laughs around you, easy as can be.

The last time you felt so uninhibited, you were with Louis, walking through Hyde Park sharing a packet of crisps, enjoying the sunshine as he told you some funny story about filming his first movie. But you shake your head at the memory, at yourself for recalling it, and try to be firm with yourself about this.

It's over, now, with Louis. He is Louis Tomlinson once more, as distant as the smog-obscured stars dying in another galaxy beyond the quiet gravity-bound streets of Notting Hill. It would do you well to go on the dates your friends are offering you— demystifying your romanticized crush by going out with other perfectly nice, far more attainable men instead.

It's not like you're expecting a soulmate, but— a click would be nice. A sort of wobbling into place, a fooling-around in the bathroom stall to remind yourself that you are alive, and desirable, and the last month is only a little stumble, an exception and not the rule.

The reminder would be a salient one, you muse, watching Gemma snort sangria out of her nose at a joke Niall made to delighted laughter and hesitating a beat before joining in.

—

_Midnight Memories_ — whose plot you never bothered to Google on your phone on your way to the cinema— turns out to be two hours of Brie Larson cheating on Louis with his brother, played by Aaron Rhodes, while chasing a career in publishing.

You feel Zayn’s worried eyes on your profile several times throughout the film— and, admittedly, watching Louis express anger and grief when he discovers the truth of Brie’s infidelity, when you now have evidence Louis would have been aware of how art would intersect like a car crash with real life, is a visceral kind of torture. But you sit up ramrod straight through the whole thing, expression impassive as you stare at the screen as though locked in a deadly staring competition.

When it's over, you give Zayn a strained smile, and ask Gemma and Karlie in an undertone to set group dates as soon as possible.

—

Fortunately, both Karlie and Gemma work quickly, setting up dates for the following Thursday and Saturday. Niall helps you pick your outfits, and Zayn lets you borrow his best cologne, and you treat yourself to Uber rides on the way there, nervously fixing your hair in your iPhone camera. You arrive early, start on a beer while you wait, and do your best to smile through the evening despite eventually aching facial muscles.

The dates don't go terribly.

Xander is first, a lithe marketing executive with blonde hair almost as curly as yours, who works on Gemma and Ashley’s floor. He graciously buys the first round of drinks, and mozzarella sticks for the table, and spends at least five minutes asking you about yourself before launching into a rambling, comprehensive description of his duties in the office. You stifle a yawn and nibble the mozzarella sticks while Gemma and Ashley exchange looks, but you stick around until the end of the monologue and are rewarded with a very welcome shot of tequila. Once ninety minutes have passed, you tell him you have a sick cat at home you need to get back to, and leave it at that.

Jeff is a little better— your physical type to a tee, wavy brown hair and clever eyes and curvy legs, and also generous about buying rounds. Taylor and Karlie choose a club with a decent bar instead of some place quiet, so once they're properly tipsy, and “Drunk in Love” starts playing, Taylor drags Karlie off to dance, the two of them exuberant and all over each other, a tangled blur of long arms and blonde curls moving to the music. You and Jeff exchange amused looks, but Jeff leads you to the dance floor too, hazel eyes mesmerizing in the limited light as he pulls you in, starts feeling out your boundaries.

You end up dancing for quite a while, enjoying the way Jeff loses more and more of his inhibition as the buzz sets in, hands roaming your body as he grinds up against you. But when he finally leans in to kiss you— warm salty lips and sloppy tongue finding yours— you find you have to wrench yourself away, and call off Taylor and Karlie. It's difficult to explain your reaction— to them, as well as Niall and Zayn when you get home— but the sensation of kissing a stranger, no matter how attractive, feels like panic and claustrophobia instead of elation. You spend the night snuggled in a blanket on the reclining chair watching old episodes of _The Office_ until four in the morning, wondering if somehow you've been struck by lightning and had your whole personality fried.

Zayn, while disappointed you don't want a second date with either of them, remains undeterred, however. He consults with Taylor and the two of them join forces to set you up on three more dates with various friends and friends-of-friends.

There is Jamie, who has a face like a teddy bear and makes you laugh all evening but feels so strange to kiss that the two of you resolve to go out for drinks again only as friends. Then there is Greg, who turns up with eyes red from a bad trip, and lasts about twenty minutes before throwing up all over your shoes. Jack— a friend of Niall’s from his student teaching days— ends up being your favorite, a mild-mannered secondary school administrator who holds up his end of the conversation, has two beers with you then apologetically informs you that he has a parent-teacher meeting in the morning, and walks you to the nearest tube station before kissing your cheek good night at precisely ten thirty.

“He's pretty much perfect,” you admit when you meet Niall at Zayn and Liam’s that night for hot cocoa and debriefing. “Works with kids, really nice, really polite. Viable.”

“Are you going to text him?” Liam asks, playing with Zayn’s hair with one hand and sipping his cocoa with the other.

Your hesitation tells them all everything they need to know.

“Oh come on, Hazza!” Zayn cries indignantly. “You said it yourself that he's pretty much perfect! What more could you want?!”

“He's probably the best person I know,” Niall agrees, throwing a cushion at your face and almost succeeding in knocking over your mug.

“He's lovely, he really is!” you insist, setting your cocoa down and raising your hands defensively. “And I had a nice time! None of that is in dispute.”

“But?” Niall prods.

“ _But_...I dunno, I don't think I really want to be in a relationship with anyone right now,” you say, curling your shoulders inward. “It's just...I dunno, I'm not in the right place for it.”

“Jack sounds like a nice guy,” Zayn says. “I'm not saying you have to marry him, but— isn't it worth giving him a chance? Giving yourself a chance to make a connection with someone kind?”

“You can't hold out just because of Louis, mate,” Niall adds, so firmly and matter-of-factly that you can tell he's been dying to say this for weeks. “I liked him too, don't get me wrong, but...he's probably never coming back here. And you've got to keep living your life.”

“It's not about Louis,” you say, though you sound half-hearted to your own ears. “I mean— it's not about waiting for him in particular. It's like…” You search your head for the right words to match the precarious whirl washing through your chest, simultaneously melancholy and resolute. “You lot are going to think I'm ridiculous, but...it's like now I know what's possible, in a way. I know what it's like to connect with someone on a deeper level. And I don't want to waste my time on someone who doesn't make me feel that way. Like I want to spend a lifetime figuring them out.”

There is a pregnant pause here, all three of your friends’ faces fixed on you like they too are trying to choose careful words— words they intend to drop on you like a bath bomb, gentle but potent.

“Hazza,” Zayn says delicately, “it's not that I don't believe you and Louis had a special connection. I think you did— I saw it during dinner— and there's nothing wrong with that. But...come on, babe, he never told you he was in a relationship with someone, even after you told him you'd already been cheated on. He hurt you. Should you really be holding everyone you meet to the standard of someone who hurt you?”

A tight unpleasantness like the pit of a nectarine seems to harden behind your stomach. “That's not— you don't understand—”

“Sparks are deceptive,” Liam says simply. “Love takes time to grow. You don't always know right away; you have to give people the benefit of the doubt.” He grips Zayn’s hand in his, lacing their fingers together. “I met this one, as you know, at a friend’s party, when I was drunk off my face, and he was the most awkward, stilted conversationalist I had ever met, and it took us two more random run-ins to actually break the ice with each other, and several dates after _that_ before we decided we were exclusive. It took me weeks to feel anything resembling a ‘spark.’”

“But Zayn did know.” Your cheeks are hot and red, your heart beating quickly, but you stand your ground. “Because I remember that night, after that party, he texted me. _I think I met an actual angel tonight_. He was awkward with you because he already had a feeling, but he was too chicken to ask for your number. So the universe had to intervene.”

“You never told me that?” Liam turns to look at Zayn beside him in mingled amazement and fondness. Zayn goes a brilliant pink while Niall starts cackling into his cocoa. “Is there a reason this little factoid failed to make it into any wedding toasts or speeches or late-night chatting?”

“I didn't— It was just—” Zayn splutters, but Liam just chuckles, kisses Zayn’s cheek.

“It’s very sweet, but Haz, I don’t think that anecdote proves your point,” Liam says. “All Zayn had was an inkling. And so did I. But the real work of building a life together— that’s never the sexy part. There was no spark when we argued about money, or chores, or how to deal with our families. And there was definitely no spark when I had my accident, and suddenly both our lives had completely ruptured at the seams. We had to learn each other from scratch, in a way, because we’d never lived in a world where I couldn’t use my legs and Zayn had to take on a more active role in taking care of me. That kind of stuff— the stuff that makes up real happily ever afters— I mean, there’s no way to know if you have it after a first date. ‘Sparks’ aren’t reliable indicators of lasting love.”

All four of you go quiet at that, sipping at your cocoa mugs and mulling over Liam’s words. Zayn smiles down at his husband like he hung the stars himself, a look of such infinite tenderness in his eyes that you yourself melt a little.

“I think,” you venture slowly, “that you two forget, sometimes, how lucky you really are to have found each other. Love is work, but love is also just…clicking, and to connect with someone on both levels like you do is just. Well. Strange as this may sound, it kind of makes me want to give up on the whole thing altogether.”

“Don’t do _that_ , either,” Liam says, eyes twinkling as he surveys you from the crook of Zayn’s shoulder. “And I’m not saying you have to force it with Jack— or with anyone, for that matter. All I’m saying is...keep yourself open. You can’t always predict what people are going to mean to you, if you let them.”

“You’re so wise, Leems,” Zayn coos, kissing his nose.

“And you’re both bloody revolting,” Niall laughs, gulping down the last of his cocoa. “I’m with Haz on that particular count— the two of you make me want to give up on relationships, and also life.”

“Sorry to have been such a false idol,” Liam grins. “But— hey, it is time for us to head up to bed, I think, because I’ve got that early conference call tomorrow.”

“On a Saturday?” Niall wrinkles his nose in revulsion.

“Yes indeed,” Liam says. “A life of finance is rather low on both glamor or free time, I'm afraid. So I will, unfortunately, have to kick you both out now, sorry.”

“No problem,” you say, standing up and gathering all the mugs in your arms. “Nialler, you want to help me wash up?”

“Sure,” Niall says, standing too. “And we’ll see ourselves out, mates, you go on up.”

“Thanks, guys,” Zayn says, hugging Niall and then you from behind, lingering a little longer with his chin digging into your shoulder. “Love you. Talk tomorrow.”

You unload two of the mugs in Niall’s hands and blow them both kisses, as Zayn returns to the couch and scoops Liam up in his arms with practiced grace, Liam’s arms around Zayn’s neck and his skinny legs dangling off of Zayn’s skinny arm. You dawdle in the entrance to the kitchen a moment more while Niall starts the sink in the kitchen, watching as Liam presses a soft kiss to Zayn’s mouth like the old married couple they are, and Zayn starts their nightly trek up the stairs to their bedroom. Liam is clearly teasing him about something, the two of them laughing together as Zayn climbs, their murmured conversation so private and so beautifully familiar that the old ache in the tendrils around your broken heart flares up again, fascinated and envious of this thing Liam and Zayn have with each other— this love like a multi-faceted gem, bright and shining.

You understand what Liam meant about relationships being work, and sparks being deceptive— but even so, as the two of them disappear to the first floor of the house, you can’t help but feel on a level you can’t quite articulate, that there is something between them that goes beyond the active choice of being together. That there is a connection deeper than logic; a spark, that is warm and nourishing instead of combustible, but a spark nonetheless. You could have spent your whole life with Zayn running your shared bookshop and living in your little house as roommates, and still not created a fraction of the intimacy that Liam and Zayn do just going up the stairs.

You find yourself remembering, as you and Niall scrub down the cocoa mugs, that when Liam was first in physical therapy recovering, the only way to disentangle Zayn from Liam’s side besides work was long exercise sessions at the gym, sometimes multiple times a day. And when you asked him why, Zayn told you, so matter-of-factly that it almost cracked your heart in two, that he had always been too naturally skinny to carry proper bulk, but he needed to train hard because Liam would need help going upstairs, and he wasn’t about to move to an apartment or install some hideous, expensive electric chair on their lovely wooden staircases when he could just carry Liam up himself. “In sickness and in health, right?” Zayn often said with a wink when he ducked out of work early to run to the gym.

Their love for each other is so secure, so absolute; the kind of love that usually only exists in fairytales— and yet, here they are, Zayn and Liam, living quiet but still passionate lives in the middle of this busy city, as happy together as anyone can hope to be.

You don’t know— in fact, you highly doubt— that you will ever experience anything close to what they have. But if you did...well. You resolve right here in Zayn and Liam’s kitchen that you will never admit this out loud to another living soul, but you know, in your heart of hearts, that despite what happened, despite everything, if you ever did have a chance of coming close— it would have been with Louis.

This thought should bring you to tears— but oddly enough, it doesn’t. Not today, anyway. Today, you put Zayn and Liam’s mugs away, and walk home with Niall, and the two of you stay up late watching _The Office_ together over the last remaining packet of microwave popcorn. And when Niall hugs you good night, and you slip into bed, you exhale this night in the direction of your ceiling, and sleep dreamlessly.

—

July turns to August, August to September and October. By now, you have successfully convinced your friends that you don’t need to be fixed up, and that you really are okay, busy organizing new poetry readings and open mic nights with Zayn at the shop to boost sales, and spending more time reading the books you do get in, and generally getting on with things. Not going on dates miraculously frees up some more of your time and energy, after the spate of them in the summer, and you find yourself filling that welcome absence with more movie nights with Niall, Zayn, and Liam, more evenings experimenting with recipes. Niall happily eats everything you make, and you like to put on music while you cook, and so your nights are often full of life, productive and cheerful. Your bachelorhood is a source of celebration, for once.

Which is why, this particular Monday morning in the middle of October, while you and Niall are in full swing with preparations for the haunted house party you two are putting on for Halloween, you are woefully unprepared for the maelstrom that knocks on your door in the middle of breakfast.

You are in boxers and an old uni t-shirt at the kitchen table, taking the rare morning off work and leaving the shop in Zayn’s capable hands, eating a bowl of Lucky Charms while scrolling through the headlines on your phone. While, fortunately, Louis’s name has stayed off your newsfeed in recent months, today he is inexplicably back in the thick of it— a photo scandal, it seems, in which compromising private pictures have been leaked to the tabloids and published on every imaginable platform with impunity.

You are engrossed in your phone when you pad distractedly towards the increasingly insistent knocking on your door, which you open to find— Louis himself, in the flesh.

You are in grave danger of dropping your phone to the ground a second time in six months, probably shattering your screen forever.

“ _Louis_.” You tuck your phone into the back pocket of your boxers to protect it from your suddenly shaking hands. “This is— um—”

“Can I come in?”

His voice sounds thick, and the tip of his nose is pink, like he’s been crying, but his eyes are hidden behind big aviator sunglasses— the same sunglasses he wore to your shop the first time you met. He looks smaller than he ever has, standing on your doorstep in billowing gray sweatpants and a dark blue Amsterdam sweatshirt, a black backpack like a turtle shell cutting into his shoulders. You’re sure it’s obvious— and rude— but you can’t help gaping as you step back and let Louis pass.

You bring him into the kitchen, pull out a chair for him adjacent to yours. “Do you— do you, er, want anything? Cereal, milk? Juice?”

“Water,” he says, and you immediately fetch it from the tap, grateful for something concrete to do. He accepts the glass in two hands and takes a shaky sip, setting it down on the table and exhaling so delicately that for a moment you imagine his lungs to be made out of soaked tissue-paper, ready to tear at the slightest provocation.

You pull your phone out of your pocket and set it on the table beside your cereal bowl, hyper-aware of the unnatural primness of your posture, the tension like a taut wire holding your pieces together. The lazy morning you had been cherishing so recently has blown up like a soup can in a microwave, and you aren’t sure where to begin here. You take a tentative bite of cereal and at once regret it, the loud crunchiness of your chomping utterly at odds with the somber mood Louis has brought into the house. You set your spoon down, blinking uncertainly at him, also sitting unnaturally prim at your dining table, motionless.

A minute— an eternity— later, he gingerly removes the sunglasses from his face. His eyes are indeed red and swollen, which somehow serve only to make the blue of his irises that much more striking. He looks so young, so confusing and otherworldly with his film star features in the mundane normalcy of your tiny kitchen. There is so much to say, so many questions you have about then and now, but time seems to stand still in Louis Tomlinson’s grief. He shrugs off his backpack, lets it fall to the floor with a thud that makes you jump. He sniffles, then nods at your phone.

“I’m sure you’ve seen,” he says, as you silently offer him the tissue box on the counter next to you. “They’re just...everywhere. Those pictures. I— I didn’t know where else to come.”

“I only caught a bit of the headline when you knocked,” you admit. “I haven’t seen the pictures. I don’t know the story.”

“You must be the only one.” Louis attempts a wry chuckle, but it only sounds tragic. You take a tissue and hand it to him to blow his nose— which he does, turning his nose even pinker.

“I can read the rest on my phone, if you don’t want to go over it again,” you say. “But if you want to tell me yourself, you can do that too.”

He considers this— more seriously than you would have guessed. He wipes his eyes with another tissue, and seems to work up a fragile strength to sigh, “It’s...it’s Aaron. At first, the tabloids wouldn’t name him as the source, but. I know who I take pictures with. And a few of them have his face reflected in the picture frames on the wall, which people started figuring out about an hour ago. He, uh…”

Louis twists the tissue he’s holding in his hands, pulls until it tears. “He wanted revenge. Because I broke it off with him, and he didn’t like it, so he decided to out me. We took those pictures in New York, that last time we hooked up before I met you.” Your stomach free-falls into your toes, your face suddenly tight and awkward, but Louis doesn’t seem to notice. “He had this...new black-and-white camera. He was excited about it. Wanted to take pictures of me, of both of us, while we were having sex. He’d signed NDAs for me before, but that night we were tipsy, and he was just messing around, told me I looked beautiful naked. Told me these were just for him, for when he missed me. I thought he was joking. Teasing me. I didn’t know he was serious about that.”

“He did seem serious about you,” you say quietly. “You know...when he came to the Savoy.”

“But that’s what I was trying to explain to you, in the hallway.” Louis sounds so tired, so faraway. “I really had no idea how he felt. I know I’m never going to be allowed to come out with Simon as my manager, so anything I have with someone has to be this torrid secret affair, and anyway I don’t— I just wanted sex. And he wouldn’t believe me when I said we weren’t dating. And when I finally _did_ get him to believe me...well.”

He blows his nose again, sips at his water and buries his face in his hands for several long moments, takes several shuddering breaths into his palms while you sit timidly in front of him, unsure how to reach him, how to touch him. Your cereal wilts steadily in its pool of milk, and the autumn sunshine streams in through the kitchen window, and your heart swells two sizes at the sight of him fighting to regain his composure.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to barge in on you like this,” he mumbles wetly. “I was in New York when this hit, and my building there was getting swarmed, and I had to get away— and the only place in my mind was that house with the blue door in Notting Hill. The last place I was…”

He picks up his tissue and blows his nose a third time, leaving the sentence unfinished and you wondering, as you so often do, what exactly he’s thinking. And yet, sitting here in this kitchen under these extraordinary circumstances right now, so many months between you—  it almost ceases to matter, because you know how _you_ feel. A small smile tugs at the corners of your mouth; your hand moves to rest carefully on top of his. He looks up at you, a wild, desperate hope aflame in his eyes, and your breath catches in your throat like a loose thread on a branch.

“You’re safe here,” you tell him. “Why don’t you go take a hot shower, you can borrow whatever of mine you need, and I’ll put on the kettle for tea, and order a pizza while I’m at it?”

Louis’s face seems to crumple again, but this time with such profound relief that it’s all you can do not to pull him in for a hug and refuse to let him go. “That…would be perfect.”

He finishes the glass of water and stands up, steadier this time. You start to tell him where the bathroom is, but for the first time since he walked through your door and back into your life, he smiles a little. “I remember, Harry,” he says, adjusting the strap length of his backpack. “I’ll, um. I’ll be down in a while, then.”

He makes his way up the narrow staircase, footsteps heavy on the creaking wood. The second you hear the bathroom door open and close in the distance, you snatch up your phone and shoot off a text in your group chat with Niall, Zayn, and Liam.

_Louis’s here, turned up fifteen minutes ago out of nowhere. Don’t have full story yet. Z, can you handle the shop today? N, could you possibly stay at Z and L’s tonight?_

The responses come back almost instantly.

Zayn: _saw the story on Facebook today!!!! Take good care of him, let us know if u need anything else_  
Niall: _sure mate, i’ll bugger off, tell me when the coast is clear. Is he ok??_  
Liam: _was going to make snickerdoodles tonight anyway, should i send some over???_

In spite of everything, you smile a real smile, have to restrain yourself from hugging your phone to your chest since you can’t hug your friends in person.

_thanks guys. Pls send snickerdoodles if not too much trouble. details when i can xx_

You switch off your phone and tuck it back into your pocket, take a deep steadying breath, and turn the kettle on. It occurs to you, as you stand in your kitchen in your underwear deciding on pizza toppings at ten thirty in the morning, that you should probably put on some sweatpants yourself. Maybe put on a slightly nicer shirt; on second glance, this one has a mysterious coffee-colored stain on the chest, and a couple of holes near the bottom. And it wouldn’t kill you to fix your hair, either, this sloppy tangle of curls you likely should have washed yesterday.

You dig up an old green bandana from the coat cupboard from that time Gemma dragged you out to a cancer research fun run, and gather your hair into it, everything suddenly lighter with the absence of weight on the back of your neck. And by the time you look slightly more presentable, the tea kettle is whistling for your attention, and you rush to meet it.

—

Louis takes an hour and a half upstairs before descending down the staircase, hair freshly washed and brushed back, distantly scented with your apple shampoo. He's wearing a different pair of sweatpants, navy blue instead of gray, but he's wearing your faded old Coldplay concert t-shirt, and has borrowed your yellow Hufflepuff socks for his dainty feet. You smile with the thrill of seeing him in your clothes, just a little too big for him, and offer him a cup of tea.

“That smells amazing,” he says, accepting it gratefully. “But didn't you start heating the water when I went upstairs?”

“I drank that pot myself,” you confess. “I made another one when I heard the water stop running.”

Louis grins, the sight damn near miraculous under the circumstances. His eyes are still rimmed with pink, but the color in his nose and cheeks now is from the heat of the shower, lovely and warm. He takes a small sip of tea, closes his eyes in appreciation.  “Tea always tastes best here, you know. I’ve tried to make it in every city I’ve been in, but. It only tastes right in London.”

“I'll make as much as you want,” you promise. “But in the meantime, pizza’s on its way, and I got sausage and pepperoni on it. I stepped out a second to get some beer and snacks, and we can…you know. Relax. We have Netflix— British Netflix, plus an acquaintance of Niall’s did something complicated and most likely illegal to get us American Netflix as well, so. Plenty of options.”

Louis chuckles like a summer breeze, sets his cup on the table and crosses his arms against his chest like he’s snuggling further into your t-shirt, further into himself and somehow, strangely, also closer to you. He doesn’t yet traverse the physical distance between you, but he sits down at the table like it’s the most natural thing in the world, picks up his cup with both hands and takes another, slightly more confident sip— _present_ , in an intangible sort of way you can feel but not quite articulate.

He is quiet for a heartbeat. For two, and three, and four. You can almost hear them, echoing off the walls in breathless anticipation. But then he sets the cup down again, and looks up at you with such pathos that you’re sure he could bring all the world to the skin of its knees, if he wanted.

“Thank you, Harry,” he says.

The three little words, softly spoken and brittle with vulnerability, span so much more than just here, today, right now. And though it is him, baring himself to you in your kitchen while wearing your clothes, you are the one feeling so vulnerable that for a moment you’re almost dizzy with it. You, who let him into your life and your home and your battered heart, standing here four months after the fact with all that you are and all you’ve ever hoped; thin t-shirt and old bandana and your stupid, innocent hope, exposed like a raw nerve; nothing to hide you, nothing to hold onto except the counter behind you, its pressure against your lower back the only thing keeping you from floating off into the stratosphere.

You find yourself blinking at him like a newborn deer, wide-eyed and unsure, the air charged, suddenly. High noon, bright enough to cut.

“You’re welcome,” you say at last, and you can’t decide if it feels like victory, or total defeat.

—

The pizza arrives just as Louis finishes his cup of tea, hot and smelling like heaven even through the box. You take it to the living room, while Louis fetches the beer from the fridge. You put on the TV and hand him the Netflix remote, ask him what he wants to watch. He takes his time scrolling through both Netflix selections, restlessly skipping through every genre. You are almost halfway through your second slice of pizza when Louis sighs, landing on _Parks and Recreation_.

“My sisters love this show,” he tells you. “When I couldn’t watch it with them, they would tell me when they were watching so I could watch wherever I was, and we’d be on the phone through it, talking and cracking up at the jokes. So it’s like comfort food to me now. I usually watch it when I can’t sleep. Must’ve seen every episode, like, four times at this point.”

“I’ve never seen it,” you confess, and Louis nearly drops his beer all over the carpet.

“You’re kidding.”

“I’m not!”

“Then our way forward is clear,” he says, starting the pilot.

He watches you more than he watches the show, as the two of you start binging the first season; you can feel his eyes on you, eager and impatient, paying minute attention to your every change in expression. When it starts to prickle under your skin, that kind of sustained eye contact, you make it a point to pull grotesque faces at the TV unrelated to the events on the screen— which makes Louis laugh, hard enough that he nearly chokes on his pizza and needs a thump on the back to get it loose.

Much of the afternoon is spent that way— companionably, watching _Parks and Rec_. It is indeed a light, enjoyable show— and Louis’s constant assurances that the second season is much better than the first do pan out— and provides perfect background chatter as the two of you eat your way through the pizza and the snacks you bought this morning. You sit on the recliner, feet curled up under you, and he stretches out on the sofa, likely spilling all kinds of crumbs between the cushion that you make a mental note to vacuum later; but his eyes are on you, almost exclusively as the second season wears on, and you can’t fully invest yourself in the show when you know he’s looking. You can’t imagine what he’s searching you for, what he could find so fascinating about you.

Over the summer, it was easier— the two of you rushing into each other like two rivers merging unexpectedly, mingled waters white with playful foam. You fell so fast and so helplessly, and he was right there with you, holding you through every dip, every bump.

But this time, there is history. You’re more careful, sitting away from him in the living room, trying frantically to protect what he’s gone and torn open again by turning up here, by _needing_ you.

You have never really known how to be needed before.

Nick used to say he needed you sometimes, when he wanted to fuck and you weren’t in the mood. _Baby, I need you_ , like that could account for his every sin, force you open like a magic lever so that he could have his way, get himself off and then disappear until he needed to get off again. Or he needed money, or an outlet for his frustration, or clean socks, or any number of things he could and would take from you before getting back to the business of living his life. Need, for Nick, was about power, manipulation— wrenching the best out of you with no promise of reciprocation. It took you too many years to learn this, but now it’s a lesson you’ll never forget.

In a way, Louis coming here after Aaron’s surprise visit feels like a familiar imposition. Him, a world-famous celebrity, and you, a besotted bookshop owner who got strung along. Whether he meant to or not, whether he understood what he was doing or made a genuine error in judgment, you were the one who got hurt, and he was the one whose life went on. For him to ask for more of you now— when you really never thought you would see him in person again— feels like too much.

And yet…he came here humbled. Alone, and seemingly without a safe haven in which to seek refuge. Betrayed, his privacy in tatters. You do know this feeling, if in a different context. Somehow, it has the strange effect of equalizing you— not Hollywood Star and mere mortal, but two human beings, cracked and bruised, yet still mostly whole. While you are unsure where else you stand with one another, this, at least, is something you can offer solidarity for.

You glance towards him, find that he's still absorbed in every minute shift of your expression. You catch his eye, and feel your face give, crack into a brilliant smile. He seems surprised by this reaction, but beams right back at you, the gesture bringing such light and such warmth to his features that it's as though the sun rose again behind his eyes.

“I don't fancy these circumstances, of course, but, um— I'm glad you came,” you say, perhaps overhonestly.

“I'm glad you let me,” he returns. “It's…been a good day. Which, all things considered, is pretty unexpected.”

He pauses, then, sitting up on the couch to face you more directly. “And, listen, I'm still— I'm truly sorry, for how I handled things last time. Even if Aaron hadn't flown in, I should have…you know. Dealt with him. Or at least been open with you about who I’d been with.”

“It's alright,” you say— and, it is. Like some kidney stone behind your gut at last dissolved into nothingness, leaving your insides clear. “I, um. I wasn't ready to hear you out before, so. Thank you for respecting my space.”

“You're welcome. I mean, until I came knocking today.” Again, he aims for lightness, but falls far short.

“I just thought— I dunno, that you'd go to your mum’s first? Or your manager?”

“My mom isn't home right now,” Louis says. “She is on a well-deserved vacation with my stepdad and siblings in Puerto Rico, and I don't want to bother her there. And Simon…well.” Louis’s expression darkens. “He's been looking for me, but. I don't want to talk to him either.”

“Can I ask why?”

“He wants Eleanor to get pregnant.”

Your eyes nearly pop out of your skull, aghast. “ _What_?”

“Yeah.” Louis sounds tired, more than anything. “Either for real, or she wears padding and mysteriously miscarries a month later. Seriously disgusting bullshit.”

“Is that even legal?” You're halfway to your phone to google the query, but Louis only chuckles soullessly.

“Yeah, sadly, it is. It's been done before, and will be again. Simon and I were having a, um. _Spirited_ discussion of business ethics when Aaron decided to go rogue.”

“Can you avoid it?” you ask, turning down the volume on _Parks and Recreation_. “Like, can you say no?”

“I'm trying.” Louis picks moodily at his fingernails. “Simon’s been pissy with me lately, anyway. Has all these harebrained publicity schemes, when I just want to do my job and be left alone. He wishes I were less mouthy; I wish he were less homophobic and generally unhinged; it's a typical Hollywood managerial love story.”

He pauses, hand poised over the bulge of his phone in his pocket. “Do I dare take a peek at the field day the press is probably having right now?”

“I can read it for you, if you like,” you offer, pulling out your phone and waking it up. “Or I can follow along while you read it. Up to you.”

The left side of Louis’s tugs upward in a crooked smirk. “Huh. I would've pegged you for the ‘don't look and don't give them power’ perspective.”

You shrug. “If it were me, I'd want to know. The better to deal with it.”

“You're a good man, Styles,” Louis says. “Let me see here— ah, _The Sun,_ my favorite British tabloid. TMZ. Buzzfeed. Made it to the American news media alphabet soup as well— must be a slow news day over there.”

“Eleanor is apparently shocked and hurt,” you note while scrolling Google News. “You've cheated on her— with a male costar to boot.” You wrinkle your nose as you keep scrolling. “A word to the wise, avoid these comment sections. They're brutal.”

Louis does that odd, flat chuckle again, but there is turmoil in his eyes. “I'm not surprised. El’s people are smart and opportunistic. They're going to want to save her ass in all this. Make her look like the victim. The way the narrative was set up, there's a lot of potential for her here.”

“Do you think she’ll do interviews? Throw you under the bus even more?” you ask, suddenly anxious on his behalf.

“No. She won't make any appearances until her people have coordinated with mine. They can walk back the worst of their initial statements then— this stuff is just to be proactive about defending Eleanor’s honor, it's easy to retract— and together, our teams will spin this so Aaron takes the blame for breaching our privacy while we work out our complicated relationship issues. Simon’s probably on the phone with her manager now, planning out the logistics.”

“Do you need to be in on that?” The calmer he gets, the shakier your voice becomes. “You can make a call if you want, I'll go upstairs—”

“No, no, don't worry.” Louis sighs. “Simon wouldn't listen to me anyway, even if I were in the room. He'd tell me to shut up and let him clean up my mess as he sees fit, and lecture me between breaks in the conversation to keep my filthiness private if I'm going to do it at all. I don't want to deal with it.”

“You shouldn't have to,” you say, appalled. “You were the victim here. Shouldn't he be on your side?”

“This is the only way he knows how to be on my side. There’s show bizz for you.” Louis does a sarcastic jazz hands, lets his arms fall back to the couch like there are anvils tied to his wrists. Pauses. “I would win Liam’s cupcake now, wouldn't I. Think I've finally out-tragic-ed you.”

You giggle, in spite of yourself. “Well done, Louis. You win the cupcake retroactively.”

He grins again, amused but with lingering worry. He purses his lips, trying to hold the words back— but then they fall out anyway, urgent and more nervous than you've ever heard him. “Harry, I don't know how I'm going to come back from this.”

You consider this for a moment, trying to keep your grip on things. “I think…I think you'll do it like you seem to do everything. Gracefully, with your head held up high, and a witticism on your tongue that is simultaneously biting and true. Now that the proverbial cat is out of the bag, you could even come out fully, and see how that plays out.”

Louis bites down hard on his lower lip. “I don't know. I just don't know.”

“And you don't have to, right now,” you say. “You can…you can stay here tonight, get a good night’s sleep. You’ll kip upstairs in my room, since Niall’s bedroom would not pass the most basic health inspection, and I can stay on the sofa, and…and we can pick this up again in the morning. I'll make breakfast. Eggs, toast. A pot of tea.”

Louis smiles, stretches his arms out over his head and yawns. “I'd like that,” he says, glancing down at his watch. “I’d like that very much.”

He looks like he wants to say something else, but is interrupted by the ringing doorbell— a sharp interruption that makes you both jump about an inch out of your skins. You hop up to your feet and run to the door in your bare feet, brushing errant pizza crumbs off the chest of your t-shirt.

It turns out to be Niall, standing in the doorway with two armfuls of Tupperware stuffed with snickerdoodles.

“Nialler. Hi,” you say. “Shit, is Liam planning on opening a bakery in his spare time? Or at least feeding the entire Chelsea football team tonight?”

“You know how he gets,” Niall says, rolling his eyes affectionately. “Couldn't come here and mother-hen Louis himself, so he just baked the excess energy away. Turns out he had a lot to spare.”

“Tell him we’re very grateful,” you say, accepting the plastic bowls from Niall’s arms. “And that it'll take me an eternity to wash this much Tupperware to return it to him, but I'll do my best.”

“Right on, mate. Oh, hi, Louis!” Niall waves cheerfully as Louis appears behind you, apparently investigating the noise in the entrance.

“Hiya, Nialler.” You can just catch Louis walking over to hug Niall as you set the containers down in the kitchen.

“Saw you're having a rough time of it,” Niall says. “Sorry about that. Let us know if you need anything else; I'm at Zayn and Liam’s, and we’re all watching our phones.”

“Thank you,” Louis says. “And thank Liam again for me, for the cookies.”

“Will do!” Niall blows you both kisses, then shuts and locks the front door behind him.

“That's a lot of snickerdoodles,” Louis observes as you both return to the kitchen and survey the bounty before you.

“Liam and I are both stress bakers. Zayn keeps saying between the two of us, he's lucky to have a fast metabolism, or he'd be a hundred and fifty kilos.”

Louis snorts as he opens the first Tupperware in front of him and samples a snickerdoodle. “These are really good, too, holy shit.”

You take one as well, toast it to Louis’s now half-eaten one and let the flavor of the first bite flood your mouth. “Mmm. He really outdid himself this time."

“They're even better than that cupcake I retroactively won,” Louis remarks, snatching up two more.

“Do you want some ice cream with them, or do you think you want to go to bed? It's half ten now, and an earlyish night might be good for us.”

“Yeah, bed, I think. But ice cream after breakfast.” He grins wolfishly, wagging his eyebrows at you. “I'm excited.”

“Me too,” you confide, which only makes him grin wider.

“Thank you, again, for everything,” Louis says. “I think I'll just go up and read some scripts in bed until I fall asleep.”

“Scripts?” Your interest is piqued. “Which scripts?”

“I'm trying to pick my next project,” Louis explains. “I'm between a couple of them. One is this gritty, serious sort of World War II drama, set in occupied Paris. The other is— if you'll believe it— _Pride and Prejudice and Zombies_.”

“No!”

“I could conceivably play Mr. Darcy. Or Mr. Bingley. I'm reading for both.”

“You'd make a perfect Darcy,” you say, suddenly breathless.

“The World War II movie is more a prestige thing,” he says, still smiling slightly at the rapturous expression on your face. “The zombies would be more of a popcorn flick. Which is fine, but audience is important to consider.”

“I think you'd be amazing in either of them,” you say, “but you would be, just— the most fantastic Darcy. Have you read the book yet? The one you bought from me?”

“I started it,” Louis says. “It's kind of hard to get into, though. The language is so fancy.”

“Stick with it,” you insist. “It's worth it.”

“I know, I know. Things have just been crazy lately. But I will.” He grins, swallows down another snickerdoodle. “Promise.”

“Right, then,” you say, clapping your hands together. “Shall I show you everything upstairs, or—?”

“No, no, I'll be fine,” Louis interrupts, though his tone is gentle, playful. “Seriously, you've hosted me so perfectly today. Go get some sleep, I can fend for myself amongst your linens.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive.”

His smile softens a bit, eyes bluer than ever under the fluorescence of your kitchen light. He leans in a bit closer— hesitant, ever so careful, as though you are a moth’s wing one touch from crumbling under his fingers— and you find yourself standing stock still, breath caught in your throat like a hostage, wondering what he wants from you.

His fingertips are light as morning dew on your forearm as he presses his lips tenderly against your cheek, his warm mouth leaving a chaste, cinnamon-flavored kiss on your skin. He pulls away at once, the contact so brief that even as it happens you are afraid you've only dreamt it. It takes you another beat before you can exhale normally, arrange your face into a dumbstruck smile. His gaze sparkles as he catches yours.

“Good night, Harry,” he says.

“Good night,” you manage, clutching the back of a kitchen chair as he ascends the stairs and out of view.

—

You set yourself up on the sofa with extra pillows from the linen cupboard and the old comforter you saved from uni days, which still, astonishingly, does the job on a night like this. The house seems quieter than usual without Niall’s faint snoring from the middle floor, a sound you realize you relied upon as a kind of white noise to fall asleep to. You text him this insight, and instantly regret it when Niall sends you a string of devilish emojis in a row.

Despite your exhaustion, it's difficult to fall asleep after a day like today. You survived a whirlwind without even leaving the house. You take your usual tour of Twitter and Facebook, but besides the glut of articles about Louis’s photo scandal, nothing really captures your interest, or occupy the restless elves who appear to have taken up an extended Irish jig inside your bones. You close the applications after only ten minutes, dissatisfied and incomplete.

In the dark of your living room, a beautiful man upstairs sleeping in your bed, you find you're curious, actually, about these pictures.

Louis said they were taken during and after sex, and Aaron was not immediately obvious as the partner but could eventually be identified in photos explicit enough that it was always clear two men were in the room together. You feel like a fairly heinous person, wanting to wade into the ugly details when you've witnessed firsthand the pain in Louis’s face at the thought of those pictures. But, ironically enough, it _was_ the look on Louis’s face that made you want to know what, exactly, you were dealing with— what precisely sent Louis Tomlinson across the Atlantic Ocean just to knock on your blue front door. You have a sneaking suspicion that your soul will never lie peacefully until this demanding itch is satisfied.

So you open your Safari tab, and search Louis’s name.

The Buzzfeed coverage he had mentioned in passing earlier pops up, under the headline, “Louis Tomlinson had an affair with his male costar and the Internet is losing its mind.” You open the article, which links immediately to a slideshow with all the released pictures, slapped with a NSFW warning.

With a deep breath, you press your finger to the screen, and let the slideshow load.

The photos are all in black-and-white, as Louis had also mentioned. But what shocks you isn't necessarily the nudity— though there is plenty of it. It's the sheer intimacy of each photograph. The raw, uncensored pleasure and playfulness in Louis’s face; the way the light and the composition so lovingly capture his abundant beauty. They actually bring a lump to your throat as you scroll through, an ache deeper than logic somewhere inside of you that you somehow can't touch, even as it sears through every layer of your being.

There is Louis, lying in a tangle of sheets, his dark hair wild and stark against the milky material, laughing with his head thrown back so that the camera captures each shadow and shade of his throat, his delicate collarbones. There is Louis posing, pretending he's a supermodel but too giddy to hold still, so the image comes out a little blurred. There is Louis going down on Aaron’s penis, the camera above his head and looking down on him, the fey slant of his cheekbones and the fan of his eyelashes brushing against Aaron’s pubic hair. There is Louis lying on his stomach with the camera again looking down, the wide expanse of his back and the curves of his slender waist lovelier than words, his ass as round and firm as summer fruit while Aaron begins penetrating him from behind.

But your favorite one— if, indeed, a favorite can be had in a situation like this— is one towards the end of the slideshow, where the camera is somewhere near his hip, clumsily looking upward at him. The topography of his torso is immediate— the soft valley of his waist, the small ridges and folds of muscle in his flexed abdomen, the breath he is taking palpable even in a single frozen shot. But right at the top of the image is a glimpse of Louis’s face— flushed, hair messy and sticking slightly to his sweaty skin. And the way he is smiling— the gesture so private, so purely and joyfully vulnerable, likely just after reaching orgasm— brings your whole heart to a shuddering standstill.

He is so _happy_ here. Relaxed, and open, and free. Aaron was fortunate enough to experience it firsthand— and for the tiniest of split-seconds, you can almost understand his devastation, at learning that Louis didn’t want to do this with him again. You wouldn't want to let him go either. But Aaron must have been a dangerous kind of obsessed and desperate, releasing photos this personal out to the rabid, insensitive world, equating his hurt feelings wit Louis’s shattered privacy, public humiliation, and threatened career.

You sigh heavily, closing out the tab and setting your phone down on the coffee table. Any impulse you'd had for sleep has now been successfully extinguished. You retire to the kitchen, turning on one light and fixing yourself a bowl of cereal.

You eat as quietly as you can in the ringing silence, staring down into your bowl lost in your own thoughts. But you are swiftly yanked from your reverie by the creak of the staircase, the sound of footfalls carefully making their way downstairs.

“Louis?” you call out.

“Harry.” He appears like an apparition— like a dream— at the bottom of the stairs. “I didn't expect you to be up.”

“You either,” you point out through a mouthful of cereal. “Want some?”

Louis sits down at the table across from you, pours himself a helping of milk and cereal as well. Neither of you bothers to turn on the rest of the kitchen lights, unwilling (at least on your part) to break the spell of illicit late-night snacking, so all you see of him are the lights and shadows playing off his features by the dim golden fluorescence and the distant moon shining pale gray. Despite having just seen him fully naked in those pictures, it strikes you that he is just as beautiful in your baggy clothes, crunching on a bowl of Cocoa Pops in your kitchen, as he is nude in someone else’s bed.

“I'm horribly jet-lagged,” Louis says by way of explanation, as he refreshes the milk dregs with new cereal. “What's your excuse?”

“Just…thinking.”

“You went and looked at the pictures, didn't you.” And, when you look distraught and flabbergasted— “It's okay, it's okay. I don't blame you. I was curious to see how they turned out myself, so I did the same thing upstairs.”

“Does this mean that we were both on separate floors of this house tonight looking at your naked photos?”

You aren't sure whether to laugh or evaporate in humiliation— but Louis only grins widely. “I suppose we were.” A beat. “Is it weird that I don't mind you seeing them? I feel like you wouldn't judge.”

“They were beautiful,” you admit.

“Aaron is something of a romantic.” Louis states this the way one might preface an obituary. “I shouldn't have indulged him.”

“I'm sorry it all went so spectacularly to shit.”

“Me too.” Louis picks up his bowl, tips the last of the cereal and milk into his mouth. “But such is life, right?”

He rises to his feet, places the bowl in the sink and takes yours too while he's at it. He starts the water and squirts cleaning liquid onto your ancient sponge, starts scrubbing the dishes.

“Louis, you don't have to—” you begin to protest, but he quells you with a single look.

“I know I don't have to. I want to.”

You lift yourself up to sit on the counter beside him. “Thank you.”

He makes quick work of the dishes, while you idly bounce your heel against the wooden cabinets. When he’s finished, he steps over so that he is all at once standing with your open legs bracketing his hips, your faces much too close. Instinctively, your gut clenches, your eyes widening in confusion, nerves. Desire.

“Hi,” he says, somehow both sly and sweet.

“Hi,” you manage.

“Listen.” He balances his hands on your knees, but holds eye contact with a certain seriousness that roots you in place. “I know the timing is awful, and you have no reason to trust me anymore after seeing the circus that is my existence up close. And…I mean, full disclosure now, I've found it hard over the last few years to maintain anything normal with someone who was…well, normal. Romance doesn't come easy to me. My life is just— complicated.”

“I remember,” you murmur.

“Right. So.” Louis clears his throat, blinks up at you through the length of his eyelashes. “I don't expect you to want to leap into anything with me. I know I'm damaged goods, I know I fucked up last time and I'm still not sure what I'm doing or where this is going to go, but…” He inhales a deep lungful of air. “But I've been wanting to kiss you since June. And I'm wondering if you would…be so kind, as to let me do that, for a minute. Just, kiss you. No awkwardness, or strings attached.”

For a moment, you are rendered quite speechless. Your heart threatens to pound out of your chest and off towards the horizon; your palms are sweaty, your entire body on high alert. He is so close you can count every dizzying shade of blue in his extraordinary irises. His mouth is soft and waiting, and you feel the arousal begin deep in the base of your spine, the air hitching in your throat.

“I don't know that I can ever say no to you,” you confess, leaning forward and resting your forehead against his, breathing in the slightly-chocolatey scent of him.

“I don't want to force you into anything.” You can feel him reluctantly pulling away from you, the bulge in his sweatpants becoming more pronounced even as he does so. “I can take care of this myself, there's no obligation or anything. I don't want to make you feel uncomfortable in any way…”

He takes a step back, running an embarrassed hand through his hair— but your only instinct is to reach out towards him, eyes wide, suddenly bereft without him sharing your space.

“No, no, don't— don't go,” you say, surprised yourself by how needy your voice sounds. “I…I don't want to say no to you. Want you right here.” _With me_.

He has never looked more vulnerable than he does right now, cautiously returning to your gravity, blinking up at you with both hope and trepidation. There is a touch of the divine in the way he fits so snugly between your legs. And as you wrap your arms around his neck and pull him in, hunger hot in your veins, it's impossible for either of you to pretend that this is anything except the end of the line, the point of no-return.

“Please kiss me as you long as you like,” you tell him.

And that's all he needs to hear: in a moment, his mouth is on yours, and it's as though you've been holding your breath for four months, and now you can finally breathe again.

He is as good as you remember, confident and pliant under your hands. You wrap your legs around his waist and half drag him up to the counter with you, mouths reacquainting  with the old rhythm, the easy give and take. You can't even fathom how you've gone so long without this, how you ever considered kissing another human being when there is Louis, eager and equally starving for you. Suddenly there is not enough of him, not enough of you, time and space collapsing around you like a crumbling city, burying your trembling hands and breathless bodies in their magnificent rubble. His chest is pressed against yours so close that your two violent heartbeats clash in your ears like a dissonant chord, a chaos that only fuels your reckless want.

“Up,” you manage to mumble, hopping off the counter and guiding him to the stairs. In a confusing tangle of limbs and kisses, the two of you make it the two floors to your bedroom, the door hanging open like it's waiting for you. You collapse onto the bed with Louis on top of you, mouthing at the base of your neck, fingers scrambling for the ends of your shirt to pull it off you.

It doesn't take long until the layers have been shed, and the two of you are entwined with each other skin on skin. The pictures didn't do him justice, some delirious part of your brain notes; he is somehow even better in person, the solid heat and breadth of him so alive under your fingers. You can't decide which inch of him to kiss first, as he navigates down from your neck to your nipples, eliciting a high, shivering moan when his teeth start working the sensitive skin.

“Fucking hell, Louis, you are going to be the end of me,” you gasp, laying back on the mattress and letting him straddle you, mouth still on your nipple as his hand moves to pump your rapidly filling cock.

“Think that feeling is mutual,” he says into your chest, right over your galloping heart, kissing the spot before returning to tease your nipple.

“ _God_ , I don't think I have any condoms up here,” you say, practically writhing as he turns his attention to your other nipple, speeding up his hand on your cock. “Do you have stuff? Want you inside me.”

“Yeah,” he breathes. “Yeah, fuck. In my bag.”

With great difficulty, he extricates himself from you long enough to grab a small bottle of lube and a condom from deep inside his backpack. He gets to work, while you watch his quivering fingers open the packaging.

“I didn't dare hope with you,” he says, slicking up his fingers and easing their cold slipperiness into your hole while you hiss with the sensation. “Thought I'd fuck my way through New York and L.A. trying to forget about you.”

You want to answer, but he has a finger inside of you and you feel yourself go cross-eyed with it, panting slightly as you squirm for friction. So instead, you yank him closer, kiss him soundly with all the gusto you can muster. “I'm here. I'm here. I'm always gonna be right— _here_ , fuck.” He has a second finger in you now and already, you're afraid you’ll come any second, awash and adrift in all the ways he makes you feel, physically and otherwise.

He presses a kiss to your forehead, holds you there for a minute before sliding in a third finger. “You ready for me, sweetheart?”

“God, yes, _please_.”

He removes his fingers and it's like the seizure of the sun from the sky, leaving you frighteningly empty before you feel the condom entering you, tight heat and pleasure so intense you can't even stand to look at him, his exquisite face hovering over you so that you can feel his breath on your neck, feel his body sweat and move between your legs, one hand tenderly brushing your hair away from your eyes while his other hand guides his cock through the motions, hips thrusting, trying to find their rhythm. It doesn't take long before he finds the right angle and speed, each thrust purposeful and determined, stars popping behind your eyelids.

“Lou— Lou— Lou—” Your eyes are squeezed shut, your hands reaching up and cupping his face. “Lou, I'm gonna come, but you don't come, alright? Don't— don’t—”

With an almighty shudder, your orgasm is released in a splatter all over your own stomach, his cock slowly slipping out of you as his face nestles into your shoulder, each breath hot and a little wet in your skin. It takes you a moment before coherent words make themselves available after the tumult that just gripped every cell in your body.

“Did you come?” you manage to croak.

“No.” He sounds like he's on the edge though, his eyes when he looks up at you wild and unfocused. “Why?”

“Turn over.”

He does so obediently, and you are confronted with the real-life swell of his perfect arse, golden and waiting for you. You massage the small of his back with two hands in preparation, then gently separate the cheeks, letting your face burrow into the give of his flesh and your tongue explore the dark, delicious heat of his hole. You feel Louis’s whole body stiffen, his arse rigid as he buries his face into the mattress and groans monstrously, helplessly, into the fabric of the duvet.

“Holy hell, Harry, I'm this close to coming and blowing this condom right off myself, for god’s _sake_.”

“Hush now.” In your rosey, post-orgasm haze, you smilingly plant a kiss to his left buttock. “Relax. Let me take care of you.”

“You've taken such good care of me today, I don't— I can't—”

A massive shiver sends ripples down his back, but you return your tongue to where it was, mercilessly lavishing attention on the spots that make him wail into the mattress. “Your arse was created by God to be eaten, Louis, Jesus.

“I'm gonna come, I can't take it—”

And indeed, he comes hard in the condom as promised, gasping for air as he rolls over, sits up, and kisses you with such enthusiasm that he drags you back down on top of him, the mess you two have created on your stomach irrelevant when he is smiling into your mouth, as exhausted and as exhilarated as you are.

“This was so good,” he says into your lips, nipping at your lower one with infinite fondness. “Even better than I'd hoped.”

“Come to the sofa downstairs with me,” you murmur behind his ear. “I'll sort this all out in the morning.”

He gets up first, then helps you to your feet, your two naked bodies half-tumbling down the stairs. He slips out to the kitchen for a moment, turns on the sink and then returns with a wet hand-towel, wiping down the mess on your stomach and then pressing back against you in another kiss, the two of you crashlanding together on the couch you’d abandoned, pulling the blanket on top of you both. A cool shiver runs down your spine, despite the cover and the warmth of his weight on your front; you cradle his golden valentine of a face in your hands with deepest wonderment, amazed that you are allowed to. He plants a feather-light kiss between your eyes, something a little like love animating his crooked smile.

“Can I stay here for another day or two?” he asks in a sleepy mumble, the tip of his nose brushing against the tip of yours.

A dopey smile blossoms on your face like springtime, fresh and sunny, as you nod once, twice, three times. “Please do,” you suggest, just as softly.

He nestles his head on a comfortable spot just under your chin, his cheek pressed against your sternum. You run your fingers through his hair, smoothing out the tangles and gently massaging his scalp as he sighs into you, the sensation warm and sweet on your skin. You can feel the physicality of his breathing, steadying to the slow crawl of sleep, as the two of you lay here just like this, sandwiched together.

“Stay forever,” you whisper into his temple, as you finally let your eyes flutter shut.

—

The morning light is a gentle caress on the side of your face, bringing you to consciousness in soft, groggy waves. Despite the unusual weight on your front and side, you are still half convinced last night was a particularly vivid dream you're reluctant to wake from. But when your eyes finally creak open, there is Louis, still draped comfortably on and around your body, breaths deep and steady in sleep. Heart swollen and swelling with affection, you nuzzle your nose into his hair, kiss his scalp until you feel him stirring.

“Good morning,” you say, with a kiss to his chin.

His face falls forward on you in a long, proper kiss to your lips, tongue slipping into your mouth like you are a drink of cold water after a night in the desert.

“Good morning,” he says eventually, smile as bright as the day outside. “You're the best pillow I've ever had.”

You hold tight to his hand as he carefully stands himself up by the couch, pulls you up to your feet after him as well. You pad into the laundry room with a contented yawn, locate two pairs of boxers and hand one to Louis, who chuckles as the waistband falls low on his hips.

“You're a giant, Styles,” he says with a laugh, a kiss to your bare shoulder.

“Do you want breakfast?” you ask, moving towards the kitchen. “Eggs and toast? Ice cream and snickerdoodles?”

“Or…I can think of something even better.” There is an alarmingly mischievous smile playing on the corners of Louis’s mouth as he backs you up against the kitchen counter, pulls at your boxers and sinks to his knees. Before it even registers what he wants to do, his mouth is on your cock, tongue swirling around the head with such confidence that you have to cling to the edge of the counter for dear life.

“Louis, Lou—” But whatever you were going to say is sucked directly out of you, as he takes you deeper into his mouth, apparently as delighted to taste you as you are to be pleasured. “Lou, I swear—”

He nips at you with just the suggestion of teeth, smiling around your cock until you're incoherently babbling his name, barely upright as you feel yourself against the back of his throat. You hold back until you can't anymore, until you're on the edge of cataclysm, before tugging on his hair and coming into his waiting mouth. He swallows, licking his lips for the rest, then kisses you with the salt of your own orgasm on his lips until that, too, just fades back into the taste of him, already so intoxicatingly familiar. The pale autumn sunlight is warm on the back of your neck as he relaxes into your arms, licks into your mouth so thoroughly that already, your tired penis twitches a little with distant interest.

“Please let me make you something,” you coax him, breaking the kiss with some reluctance. “Come on, I want to cook you breakfast. What do you want?”

“Eggs and toast would be great,” he says, one more kiss to your nose. “Thank you.”

He settles in at the table, still shirtless and in boxers, feet up on a chair while he watches you start up the stove, pull ingredients from the fridge and the cupboards, eggs and garlic and onion and parsley. You are careful not to let the stove spit oil on your stomach, putting together a scrambled egg medley like your mum used to make when you and Gemma were young.

“My mum taught me a few simple things just before I went to uni,” you explain, poking around at the mixture in the frying pan. “I prefer baking, but I do pretty good eggs.”

“I can't wait to try them,” Louis says sincerely. “I can't cook to save my own life, unless you count burnt toast and Easy Mac. At first I hired a private chef so I wouldn't starve, but I move around so much that I just live on takeout, or my mom’s cooking when I'm home.”

“I can teach you this, it's idiot-proof,” you say, showing him the nearly finished pan. “Just crack three eggs per person eating into a bit of vegetable oil, some salt and pepper, throw in whatever else is in your fridge, and mix until it's done.”

“That easy, huh?”

“That easy, or I wouldn't bother.”

Louis chuckles, as you poke the eggs some more and wait for them to finish. When you're satisfied, you turn the gas off and split your concoction down the middle, transfer each half into a plate with a fork before setting one plate down in front of Louis and one in front of yourself. “Bon appetite.”

Louis takes a bite, gives you an approving thumbs-up. “I love it. I can't believe I just watched you make this.”

“They're only eggs,” you say, blushing.

“Nonetheless,” Louis says, standing up and leaning across the table, “my compliments to the chef."

His kiss is distinctly egg-flavored, but you accept it eagerly, marveling at how you get to do this now, exchange domesticated morning kisses over breakfast at the kitchen table. He shows signs of wanting to deepen the kiss, but you break it gently, taste some of the egg on your plate and savor the way he looks at you as he follows suit. You don’t think you’ll ever get used to how blue his eyes are, iridescent in this light, a warm tide breaking in perpetuity over the beach of your ruined heart.

You pass the meal in companionable silence, Louis checking his phone and social media while you finish eating and whisk both plates away to clean. Louis frowns at the screen, sometimes pulls a face, but he's much calmer than yesterday, surveying the aftermath.

“What are they saying?” you ask over the running sink.

“The same, mainly, since no new information has been released,” Louis says. “And you were right about those comment sections. They're horrifying.”

“I warned you not to read them.”

“What can I say. I'm a rebel.” But he's grinning cheerfully, setting his phone face-down on the table. “So. What do you want to do today?”

“We can stay in again so you can keep a low profile.” You leave the dishes to dry and rejoin him at the table. “Or, if you'd like to take an excursion, we could find a way to do that too. Borrow one of Niall’s hideous football caps or whatever.”

“Hmmm.” He's thinking this over when the doorbell rings, shrill and startling.

“Who's that?” Louis asks.

“I dunno. Probably Niall coming back for his toothbrush or something. I asked him to stay with Zayn and Liam while you were here.”

You hop up on your feet and walk up to the door, not bothering with a shirt because Niall has seen you in varying states of undress for years and will be completely unfazed by your shirtlessness. You wrench open the door knob, fully prepared to hug Niall and offer him a snickerdoodle—

But outside the door is not Niall. Instead, a monstrous sea of camera flashes and raucous men is there to greet you, all clamoring for a shot of you.

For a moment, the shock is so profound that you can only stand there and stare, blinded by the sheer chaos concentrated in your doorway.

“Harry!” Louis, hearing the commotion, arrived behind you and shuts the door. “Holy shit, what the fuck?”

“I— I don't—”

You retreat to the wall, heart beating off the charts as you struggle to catch your breath. Louis frowns at the door, chewing on his lower lip like he is contemplating whether or not to go to war. He waits for a few seconds, then opens the door and steps right into the maelstrom.

“Hey, who the fuck called you all?” Louis demands of the closest photographer. “Who told you where I was?”

“Just got a tip and came, mate,” the photographer answers, his camera flashing in Louis’s face.

“Oh, hell.” Louis slips back inside, back against the door and breathing hard. “They got an exclusive for the ages, didn't they— you, and me, like this, separately and also together. _Fuck_.”

“I— had no idea or I would never have opened the door, Louis.” There is a note of pleading in your tone— panic, as Louis’s radiance hardens before your very eyes. “Who could have told them? What's going on?”

“I didn't tell anyone where I was going.” Louis narrows his eyes at you, his suspicion like a chill in the air. “Who did you tell?”

“Only Niall, Liam, and Zayn!” You shrink at the tone he uses, unable to see the picture that's fast assembling in his mind. “You don't really think— they would never—”

“Maybe not on purpose, but they were the only ones who knew besides us, it has to be one of them!” Louis paces frantically away from the entrance and the offending front door, walks around and around your kitchen, thinking. “I mean, Niall was out last night— how do we know he didn't just go to the pub and let something slip?”

“Because I would trust Niall with my life,” you say, as you go to fetch a sweatshirt out of the laundry room. When you return, this is the only point on which you are firm. “It wasn't him, Louis. And Zayn and Liam wouldn't either. It's not one of us.”

“But it was somebody!” Louis sounds borderline hysterical now. “What, you think the whole press army of deplorables just magically woke up this morning and decided to visit Notting Hill on the off chance I might be there? Paparazzi are always called, always, these are never accidents.”

“So what are you going to do?” you ask, crossing your arms defensively over your chest.

“I mean, I have to go now, don't I?” Louis’s laugh is harsh, hollow. “They'll camp out here for a week if they don't see me come back outside. I'm still the big scandal, right, the big gay asshole who cheated on his saintly girlfriend not once but twice, with two different guys, and— and just, _fuck_.” The word is guttural out of his mouth, exasperated and jagged around the edges. “I have to pack.”

“Wait!” you shout, as he thunders up the stairs to your room. “Wait, Louis, can't we talk about this?! I still don't know what's going on, and—”

“What's happening,” Louis says with increasing bite as he throws his things into the backpack he came with, “is that I've been betrayed, and I don't know by whom, and the press is going to make warthog carcass out of me for this latest development in my seemingly endless depravity, and—”

“Louis, they're only trashy tabloids, they don't _mean_ anything!” you try to explain, helpless as Louis pulls on the clothes he was wearing yesterday. “It's scary out there right now, but it'll blow over, this kind of thing generally does—”

“I have no bodyguard,” Louis interrupts blankly. “I didn't tell my team when I came here, so everyone is in New York. There's no one to call.”

“We have a back door, I can call the lads to escort you out, they'll probably give you a wide berth if Liam’s with you—”

“No.” Louis’s eyes are ice-cold fire, staring you down with his bag over his shoulder. “No, you've helped enough, thank you.”

“But this is so tremendously unfair!” you protest, following him back down the stairs, feeling rather like a tumbleweed careening into a nightmarish tornado. “I literally— you just turned up here yesterday, I did everything I could, we were having a good time, we— we were having sex twenty minutes ago, for god’s sake, and now you're a completely different person—”

“If I've learned a single damn thing recently, it's that I'm stupid to ever leave my guard down,” Louis fumes, shoving his feet into his shoes. “Fucking Simon, fucking Aaron—”

“Louis, _please_ ,” you beg. “Just— just please sit down with me and have a cup of tea, we can go through your options and decide what to do—”

“You really don't get it, do you.” His tone is frigid, a deadly calm as he stops what he's doing and looks you right in the eye. “This isn't just a trashy tabloid story. This is never going to go away. Someone is always going to hold this against me— for the optics, for my sexuality, for whatever they want. I am going to lose endorsements, lose projects, potentially lose my whole career, even now, in 2017. Because that's the world I live in. The way I look, the way people perceive me— every part of it matters. The internet is forever. And so I am going to regret this forever.”

He takes the sunglasses out of his bag, pushes them up his nose until his eyes disappear, and all you can see is your own devastated reflection distorted back at you through his lenses.

“I'm going to go out front, let them get their pictures, then find a hotel to hide in. If you want to make a quick buck off this— do interviews, raise publicity for the store, whatever— I don't blame you. Might as well get something out of this ordeal, since I've got you stuck in it. You can be that guy who slept with that actor; a trivia fun fact to tell people some time at a cocktail party.”

“ _Louis,_ ” you say, wiping your eyes with the back of your hand. “Fucking hell, Louis, you know all I wanted out of this was you.”

“Haven't you seen?” There is a grit in his voice that sounds like tragedy. “Everyone wants a piece of me, Harry. You'll have to get in line.”

He adjusts his bag on his shoulder, takes a deep breath as he faces down the front door. When he's ready, he opens it and steps out into the melee, lets it swallow him whole, following him away from your house and down the street. You shut the door behind him, everything suddenly silent again. You slide your back down the door and collapse on the floor, still in complete horror and disbelief. Your perfect morning, now in ashes.

You don't even have the stomach to call anyone. So you bury your face in your quivering hands, and unleash the tortured sob welling up inside your chest. Let it all come pouring out of you, a hurricane without respite. You, here. Alone again.

—

When you at last make it off the floor, wrung out from crying, you sit down at the kitchen table, where you were so recently, blissfully happy. The mountain of snickerdoodles from Liam still sits on the counter, a pint of Haagen Daaz in the freezer. Eyes puffy and pink, you take the ice cream out and stick your spoon directly in it, eating the snickerdoodle first and then a bite of ice cream to wash it down.

You eat and eat until you can't anymore. It tastes like nothing. You reach for your phone, and text Niall to please come home as soon as he can.

—

It sinks in in waves; sometimes furious and cataclysmic, other times tender and bloody. The sweetness of that perfect day you spent in each other’s company; the confusing injustice of what followed. No matter how many times you go back over it, the ending never makes any sense. He's gone for good now— you feel it in the dead stretch of desolation behind your stomach— and so you are left to put your shattered pieces back together again.

It seems to be written in your stars to be the mess that other people leave behind.

This time, your friends know better than to paper over your grief with blind dates and well-meaning warnings. Niall hugs you and rubs your back when you cry, and Zayn and Liam feed you at every opportunity; like someone has died, and they are all doing their best to console without getting in the way. You appreciate it, even as you struggle to know what to do with it. Mostly you just stay quiet, retreat into yourself on the edges of everything while your friends hover anxiously around you, and life goes on, both with and without you.

You keep an eye on the news, in the aftermath, even though it is often painful. Two days after the paparazzi blitz, Louis and Eleanor give a joint interview on a daytime talk show, sitting a clinical distance apart on separate chairs and condemning the way the private difficulties they were working through got aired out sans permission in front of the world. Eleanor’s smile is cold porcelain as she recites what was likely a carefully scripted statement about how she and Louis have had several heart-to-hearts since the news broke, and have decided to split amicably for the time being, with both wishing the other well.

Being aware of how this looked behind-the-scenes makes their performance cringe-worthy to witness— and yet, despite everything, you find yourself proud of him, when Louis doubles down on his sexuality, looking straight into the host’s eyes as he explains that while he cares for Eleanor and values the time they spent together, he is also romantically attracted to men and wants to live honestly going forward. The news is sensational— it bombards your newsfeed for days, endless thinkpieces dissecting his words and speculating on what it all means— but you now know Louis well enough to figure out when he is or isn't acting for the cameras, and the relief on his face when photographed in the following days and weeks is palpable.

He stood his ground— and as it turns out, he needn’t have worried about his career. A month later, he has the cover of Vanity Fair. A month and a half after _that_ , he is nominated for an Oscar in the Best Leading Actor category for _Midnight Memories._

Another four weeks, and he wins it.

You, Niall, Zayn, Liam, and Gemma see it live during the watch party you and Niall host in your living room, betting obscene amounts of candy and alcohol on winners as they are announced. Zayn had insisted on the party and the drinking games— “It’s more than time for you to live in the world again, mate”— and for the most part, you actually do okay, too hopped up on sugar and tequila to be anything but numb as the night wears on. But when Louis is called to the stage to accept his prize, Liam hands you a whole pan of brownies to yourself while Louis gives a shaky, moving speech about tolerance, honesty, and art. Your mouth sours; the chocolate tastes like chalk as you force it down your throat. Tequila is a better friend for such moments, and you allow yourself a brief but intense courtship with it; fall asleep on the couch well before Best Picture is announced, heartsick and a little dizzy, and spend the next day slumped over the register nursing the most absurd hangover.

He gets to be just fine— in fact, he gets to thrive— and while you can be gracious enough to admit he deserves that, you nonetheless resent him for it a little, fighting away your stubborn melancholy in the ringing quiet of your tiny bookshop.

If only he had never come inside in search of a birthday present. If only you could have taken a wider turn on the street corner and refrained from spilling your coffee all over him. If only Aaron had chosen a different night to surprise him in London. If only you hadn't gone and gotten attached from that initial kiss in your doorway in the first place. If only.

February ends in another wave of restless self-pity, and March washes in as indifferently gray as the rest of the winter. Zayn and Liam go on holiday to Ibiza together, return with glowing tans and a hundred beachside photos they plaster all over Facebook and Instagram. Niall asks you to help chaperone a museum trip for his class, so you spend one memorable afternoon leading a massive leash of chattering children around various dinosaur exhibits. Gemma drags you to a couple of plays at Stratford-upon-Avon with friends of hers who get discounts on tickets. Taylor manages to sell a song to a pop starlet who promptly dominates the airwaves with it, and it gets stuck in your head all the time— _if you could see that I'm the one who understands you, been here all along, why can't you see, you belong with me_ … She goes on Facebook Live to dance to it every time she hears it in public, and frankly even the opening notes now makes you sick to your stomach.

Mostly you are calmest when you're busy with the bookshop or trying out a new recipe in the kitchen, working with your hands with a bit of (non-Taylor) music on in the background. Oldies playlists on your iTunes or classic stations on Pandora, something familiar. Safe. You get comfortable in your routine again, as you always have, and pass pleasant evenings with your best friends and sometimes your sister, eating something you or Zayn made over drinks, going out to catch a film once in awhile. It turns out you don't need much to be comfortable; you get good at drawing solace from ordinary things, fresh fruit and solitary walks, baking bread and reading a book of poetry next to a sunny window. As before, you resume the business of living, no matter how small or mundane the process. Basic stability is, after all, something to be grateful for.

So the weeks float past, mutating into months— March, April, the beginning of May. The sun stays out longer, cafes opening their outdoor tables, trees becoming a million shades of pink and green and white. It's always a genuine miracle that, after an unforgiving English winter, anything ever has the wherewithal to grow again out of the cracked, frozen earth— but it does. It does. And as the city’s best face blooms for another imminent summer, you find that you do too— almost a full year after the whirlwind named Louis Tomlinson wandered unwittingly into your shop, still here. Still standing firmly in place.

And the thing is, you have gotten so good at surviving— so good at folding into the protective shell of yourself and hiding away the spots that bruise— that you could easily have lived an entire lifetime just like this year. Another summer, another winter; Niall at home, and Zayn two left turns away, and the shop just down the street; everything as it has always been.

You could have done it. And you would have been relatively content, poured into the simple mold you've chosen to structure your existence.

Except…

—

“Alright, you lot, I've got some news,” Liam declares over dinner in the middle of May, taking a sip of his white wine. “And it’ll be of particular interest to you, Hazza.”

“Oh?” You arch an eyebrow over the meatball you've been attempting to stab into submission. “Do tell, Leems.”

“Our spring company picnic that was supposed to be this Friday got postponed this year,” Liam says. “You know, the one we do every year at Hampstead Heath?”

“That's bad luck,” Zayn says sympathetically, while everyone else— you, Niall, Gemma, Taylor, and Karlie— nod in agreement over your spaghetti. “The weather is supposed to be exquisite this weekend.”

“But what's that got to do with me?” you ask, finally taking a bite of meatball.

“Well,” Liam says significantly, “it's canceled because we couldn't book a spot at Hampstead Heath. Turns out, there's a movie being filmed on the grounds, and Friday will be their last day.”

Already, you feel your stomach turning to stone.

“I didn't catch the title,” Liam continues, brown eyes kind as they meet yours across the table, “but from the secretaries gossiping…I know it's starring Lily James and Louis Tomlinson. They've apparently been hogging up Hampstead Heath for weeks.”

All eyes, predictably, turn to you. You go about as red as the sauce staining the fork in your mouth, your insides clenched hard and miserable despite the wide-eyed look on your face.

“I didn't know,” you say. “I don't think I even wanted to know.” Indeed, the thought of him sharing your city with you again— just ten minutes away, all these days— makes your chest woozy.

“I'm not telling you to torture you,” Liam says. “I just— I dunno, maybe me finding this out was a sign. Maybe…maybe you should go talk to him.”

“ _He_ could have come talked to _me_ ,” you point out indignantly. “He knows perfectly well where I live.”

“Well, no, because he was the one in the wrong before, yeah?” Zayn reasons. “He probably didn't think he should bother you again. And honestly, I think that was for the best. He's brought enough chaos with him already.”

“Right,” Liam allows, “but Harry deserves closure, doesn't he? Or at least the choice of it?”

“Is it closure,” Gemma asks, “or would it be self-flagellation, at this point, to see him again? Haz, the thing with Aaron, then blaming the paparazzi blitz on you…do you really want to go back to all that?”

“Of course!” says Karlie, as though it's obvious. “Tay, do you remember when—”

“ _Yes,_ ” Taylor says dramatically. “Okay, so, there was this one time, when K and I had just started dating, and we were at this party— and she saw me with my ex, Dianna.”

“I thought they were kissing,” Karlie says, directing this to you. “They'd dated so long, and Dianna hadn't made it a secret that she wanted Taylor back, even though they'd been terrible for each other. And seeing them together, I got so insecure, because I was so new to my sexuality, and Dianna was an absolute goddess, and I didn't know what I was doing— so I left the party, and broke contact.”

“We went two weeks in total silence,” Taylor says. “My worst two weeks possibly ever. She wouldn't take my calls. I'd clearly hurt her, but I didn't know how or why.”

“I was going to try and forget her,” says Karlie. “Except…I couldn't. I was sick with missing her. We barely knew each other, and I dreamt about her every night for those two weeks. So with a friend’s encouragement to find out the truth, I called back. Turns out, Dianna was the one getting flirty, and Taylor had been trying to politely fend her off. Because she was sick with missing me too. Called me her sunshine, and said she was tired of the rain.”

Karlie grins with the private joke, takes Taylor’s hand on top of the table and squeezes tight. “So what I'm trying to say, Haz, is that you are the only one who knows how you feel— and if he's still weighing on you months later, it's worth asking him a couple of questions. He might surprise you.”

“But maybe it’s bad in the long run,” Gemma argues. “Fine, it worked out for you two— but what about all the times Nick used to blame Harry for things, and disappear for ages, and make him feel terrible? An answer isn't worth getting used or pushed around. Sometimes it's better to let it go.”

“Louis isn't like Nick, Gem,” you say quietly. “He…miscalculated with Aaron, and it was a mistake, it wasn't malicious. He and I hadn't even defined our relationship at that point anyway. And then, with the picture scandal— he had just been betrayed twice in two days, and he didn't know who he could trust. He didn't hurt me to hurt me. It was a knee-jerk reaction, if a shitty one.”

“But the fact is, you are both very different,” Zayn says. “He's got this hot-head impulsive streak to him. And he's a famous actor, he travels a lot and he runs in certain circles, and his life is very different from yours, Harry. Logistics matter when you contemplate something serious. If it's not a presumptive hook-up or a media scandal, it's something else. I just don't want to see you get hurt.”

“Exactly,” agrees Gemma. “Your heart is a precious thing, baby brother, and you have to remember that. Your happiness is paramount— whether or not that happiness includes Louis Tomlinson.”

“Nialler?” You turn now to your roommate, uncharacteristically quiet, expression thoughtful, no longer slurping his spaghetti with indecent enthusiasm. “What do you reckon?”

Niall’s eyes blaze in the summer twilight, the bright, clear, electric blue of them so different from Louis’s sharper ones. But he only shrugs, leans back in his chair.

“I think,” he says, “that this whole debate is moot. You've been my best friend ever since I moved to London, Harry, and the thing I admire most about you is that you think for yourself, and you only act when you're ready. I hated Nick, and for good reason— but I also wasn't the one in that relationship. You had to break up with him on your own time, in your own way, even if that meant you didn't fit in the timelines we all wished on you. And, eventually, you did. And you remade your life afterwards on your own terms. So I trust your judgment on Louis, and I trust that whatever you decide to do now, you’ll ask for help when you need it, and you'll make the choice that's right for you.”

To your surprise, there are tears, wet and shiny, welling up in your eyes. You are so touched that for a moment, you are rendered completely speechless.

“Thank you, Niall,” you say at last, clapping a hand on his shoulder. “I do believe that is the very nicest thing you, or anyone, has ever said to me.”

“Good, then maybe you'll remember that the next time you chew up half my ear about cleaning the kitchen,” Niall retorts, but his smile is soft as he squeezes you into a one-armed hug.

“Guess that's all of us in our places, then,” Liam says with a fond grin. “Haz, we’ll leave you to your decision— think we've all laid out some good perspectives for your consideration— and you can keep us updated. And, of course, we’ll love you no matter what happens.”

“Thanks, Liam,” you say, picking up your fork again and twirling it modestly in your pasta. “For that, and for telling me about Hampstead Heath. I'll think about it.”

Liam raises a fresh glass of wine in your direction and drinks in your honor. Everyone else follows suit— and, in the end, so do you, raising your glass to them collectively. Your friends, the best and the truest. You got luckier with them than you can possibly fathom.

But they have left you with an important dilemma to resolve nonetheless. So, as you all clear up dinner plates and prepare for dessert, you let your mind whirr with the available options.

—

In the end, there isn't one compelling factor that drives you confidently down one path or another. This is not a cerebral, patiently reasoned process of eliminating possibilities; nor is it a spontaneous, thoughtless spin of a wheel picking a random outcome.

What it is, is— these summer days are long, but the years are short, tiny pearls on an ever more crowded string, and he is here, filming not five miles from where you are. And you can't lie to yourself; you know, in your heart of hearts, that you never felt more alive than when the wind blew him here, when he brought water to the places inside of you where you were afraid nothing would ever grow again. Despite the later storms, the life he made possible in you still flourishes, reeds and dry grass brushing against each other in the dunes behind your gut, which tingles hopelessly at the very thought of him.

There was something you read somewhere once— about how everyone says love hurts, but that isn't really true. That rejection hurts, as do loneliness, envy, and loss, but these things are not the same as love and cannot be mixed up with it; because in truth, love is the only thing that makes it possible to feel wonderful again. Because love is the only thing in the world that _doesn't_ hurt.

And— you do love him. Louis. You love him as much as your tired, humbled heart knows how to love anyone. This spark that you feel, that has sustained itself inside of you and still reaches into the abyss for the chance to be close to him, cannot be called any other name. You just...click.

So, in the end, there isn't really a choice to make.

To see him might turn out to be a foolish, misguided thing. You know this. You know. But you've also know survived far worse than this, and you're still breathing. He is here in London for not much longer, the window of opportunity shrinking with every moment of indecision— and anyway, you can't think what you have to lose now that you haven't already lost once before.

You must go to him. Sober, clear-eyed, but soft. What you'll find, you can't say, but. You do need to find it, and meet it where it is.

—

Zayn agrees to hold down the shop, so you take Friday to head up to Hampstead Heath in the morning. It is every bit as beautiful a day as the weather forecasts promised, the sun high in the cloudless blue over the rolling meadow of the park, the white exterior of the house on the hill. Several roaming cameras and protective white tents have been set up on the grass, all visible from the street, clumps of people milling around with headphones and walkie-talkies, sending harried young assistants in skirts scurrying between them. You make your way towards the blockaded path, hair loose and sticky on the back of your neck, a new pair of sunglasses perched on the bridge of your nose.

When you get close to the entrance gate, you are greeted by three cheerless security guards, sweating impassively in all black under the relentless sunshine. It's an even more intimidating experience than when you witnessed the press circus at the Savoy; the film industry is called an industry for a reason. You make your approach carefully, gingerly.

“Umm, hi,” you say to the nearest guard. “I'm, er— I'm Harry Styles? Friend of Louis Tomlinson? And I was hoping if I could nip in quickly to have— have a quick word with him?”

The guard’s expression doesn't change. “Can't let you in, sir.”

“Thing is, I'm not actually insane, we do know each other,” you try again. “If you could take a moment and ask him—”

You crane your neck searching for a familiar face, but none presents itself. The guard shakes his head. “Sorry. No one’s allowed in.”

Your cause is noble, but obviously lost— the quest shot down before it could even begin. Just as well, most likely. You don't belong here anyway, gangly and awkward and too ordinary for a production like this. You'd do better to gather up your remaining dignity and flee. But, right as you are about to turn around and admit defeat, maybe just go back to work—

“Harry? Is that you?”

It's Louis. _Louis._  Louis’s voice across the gate, wearing a Regency-era navy coat that near about melts your bones to gelatinous puddles, even from a distance. You can't help the smile that slowly lights up your face beneath the glasses, as you wave tentatively at him.

“Louis. Hey.”

“Thanks, Alberto, but I can vouch for him,” Louis tells the guard with authority as he approaches the gate. His hair is slightly matted with sweat, but his costume is even more distinguished up close, broadening his shoulders and also highlighting the slimness of his waist, the beautiful lines of his legs. “Come with me, Harry.”

You smile apologetically to Alberto as he opens the gate to let you pass. But once you are on the grounds properly, the hustle and bustle around you while Louis stands under the sun in these clothes, you are shy and dazed and overwhelmed all over again. And yet— glad, too. Glad to see him in person after all these months, in spite of everything.

“God, wow, this costume is a stunner,” you tell him, restraining yourself from touching the fabric.

“It's kind of stuffy on a day like this,” Louis says, gesturing around him.

“Still.” You push your glasses up to the top of your head so that you can see him in full color, even though you have to squint in the sun. “This is…really something.”

“There's a reason movie credits go on so long,” Louis remarks. “These projects, they can get pretty massive, but, um…it's a surprise to see you here.”

His tone is flat, matter-of-fact, but his expression is guarded, eyes a strange kind of— wounded. Like an egg yolk poked dead center, betraying its liquid heart pouring out from beneath its thin yellow skin. You shove your hands into your pockets, the heat burning in your cheeks.

“I hope it's alright that I came. I know you're working. I probably should have texted you first.”

“No, no, it's— it’s fine, more than fine,” Louis says hastily. “It's our last day of filming here, and things are kind of chaotic, but…I’ve thought of you often, believe it or not, while I've been in London. Almost called or stopped by a hundred times. It was just. Well.” For a moment, he bites down on his lower lip, the pause long and agonized. “No one would've blamed you if you never wanted to see me again, having behaved so badly the last time I trespassed on your hospitality. I didn't think it was my place to barge in on you again.”

Your throat goes dry at that. “I, um. I only found out you were here a few days ago because of Liam. Your filming interrupted his company picnic. And then once I knew…I couldn't let you leave London without trying to catch you at least once.”

“I'm sorry about Liam’s picnic,” Louis says with a wry smile. “We were supposed to be out of here yesterday but ended up staying an extra day. Unfinished business, I suppose.”

“Right.”

There is another swell of silence, awkward and full of anticipation. All the time that has passed; all the questions you don't know how to ask. You could spend all day standing here looking at him like this, drinking him in, but he defies all logic and reason— how much intensity and soul fits into his compact body, how the uneven mixture of the Louis you know and the Louis Tomlinson in costume clash out here in broad daylight. You are about to ask him to find a bit of shade under a tree, or some place inside to sit, but right as the words are poised on the tip of your tongue, you hear someone calling out on Louis’s walkie-talkie— “Tomlinson, Edwards, backyard set, now!”

Louis winces as he presses down on the talk button, says, “Got it, coming.” He looks up at you in naked desperation. “I'm so sorry, Harry, I have to shoot, but— but if you could wait for me? There are...things to say. And I have to fly back to New York late tonight.”

“Okay,” you say, breathless.

He pulls his phone out of the pocket of his immaculate white starched pants, sends off a text. “Paul, my manager— he's going to take care of you, show you around. Stay here, he’ll come get you. I'm not sure how long we’ll be, but—”

“I'll wait for you,” you tell him, and a small smile takes root on his face.

“See you,” he says, and runs off.

You barely process the suddenness of his reappearance and his now absence before a tall, blonde, middle-aged man in sunglasses arrives, holding out a set of black headphones.

“Hi, Harry, welcome to set,” he says. “It's nice to meet you.”

“You too,” you say fervently.

“These headphones are so you can hear the filming they're about to do,” he explains, leading you around the side of the house, past several production assistants wheeling around carts full of equipment. “Are you a fan of Jane Austen?”

“A fan of— Austen?” You stare at him, dumbfounded.

“Well, yes,” Paul says with a chuckle. “We’re shooting _Pride and Prejudice and Zombies_. Didn't you notice the costuming?”

“And Louis is—”

“Mr. Darcy, the one and only,” Paul laughs.

Something warm and a little painful flares in your chest. “That's an excellent casting choice.”

“I agree! I'm so glad he picked this over that stuffy World War II script.”

He takes you to a producer’s chair under a white tent overlooking the back side of the property, where you can just make out Louis in the distance, another man in Regency attire, and a blonde woman in a plum-colored dress getting into position while a man in a black cap— the director, most likely, points out the blocking. Paul shows you how to adjust the volume and frequency of the headset, and hands them over to you.

“Are you sure you don't need anything else?” he asks. “Water, coffee? Or, tea, as they all drink it here? There are also snacks and pastries inside the house.”

“No, no, thank you so much,” you say. “I’ll, er. Be fine over here.”

“Okay. But if you do need anything, call me directly, that’s my cell number,” he tells you, giving you his business card. “Feel free to explore the rest of the set too, if you like!"

He waves merrily as she walks away, returning to her headset and gesturing for a production assistant to complete a task more quickly. You settle into your chair— you’ve never gotten to sit in one of these quintessentially Hollywood chairs before, and they’re more comfortable than they look— turning up the volume on your headsets, a thrill shivering through your insides when you hear Louis’s voice, as clear and present as if he were right beside you. He is leaning against a tree, fanning himself in vain in the summer heat, conversing in a bored drawl with the woman in the purple dress.

“God, I’m starving,” the woman is complaining. “My manager’s had me on this strict rabbit food diet the whole time I’ve been shooting, so that I fit into my damn corset, and then they have the audacity to put out _donuts_ inside. And I swear I saw Lily scarfing them down this morning while she was in the makeup chair, and I’m just like— you’re the one starring in this movie, and you’re compromising the fit of your costume right now while the rest of us make these sacrifices for our careers—”

“Simmer down, simmer down,” Louis says, sounding simultaneously annoyed and amused. “The shoot will, with any luck, finish up today, and then you can indulge in all the donuts your heart, and stomach, desire.”

“Lily has no discipline,” the woman sniffs. “I mean, did you know she’s also had her boyfriend in on set, and they go have a shag in her trailer between takes? Honestly. No focus whatsoever.”

“That harlot. She should never work in this town again.”

“Easy for _you_ to be so arch, Tomlinson,” the woman shoots back, her nose in the air as she surveys the light stands being moved around in front of them. “You got away with all kinds this summer too, all those extra takes they let you do because you looked so distracted half the time. Was it a woman?”

“I’m gay, Perrie.”

“Oh, right. Was it a man, then? What about that curly chap you and Alberto let into set from the gate just now? I was coming back from hair and makeup, and I saw you together. Don’t tell me _you’re_ getting secret shags between takes on set too.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he scoffs.

“Then who was he?” the woman— Perrie— presses. “A _friend_?”

“He’s nobody,” Louis says, in his most bored tone yet. You can just make out his body language across the way, leaning against the tree with his arms folded over his chest.

“Didn’t seem like nobody,” Perrie observes. “Thought he had real heart-eyes for you when you two were talking.”

“That happens sometimes,” Louis says with a shrug.

“What, your friends fall in love with you?”

“He’s just somebody I knew once,” Louis tells her. “Bit embarrassing, really, but I didn’t want to be rude.”

“Noble,” snorts Perrie. “Don’t go leading him on, though. He had a puppyish look about him.”

Louis hums in agreement, and this is the moment you have to take the headphones off your ears, let them fall to the ground with a thud as heavy as your own heart, crashing down around you like a rockslide. Blood pounds in your ears, running hot under your skin, breath shaky as you come back to your equally shaky feet, feeling as though you’ve had the wind knocked out of you. You don’t think to talk to anyone, ask for Paul or otherwise; you just stumble off like the victim of a car accident, half-dazed as you walk back through the gate the way you came in, thanking Alberto in a voice that doesn’t even sound like your own. Your legs take you home on autopilot, back to Notting Hill and the comforting solidness of your blue front door, back to your couch where you sink like a stone in the river, too heartsick to even begin processing what’s just happened.

When it mattered most— when you were there, waiting for him— he dismissed you to his costar like you were nothing, like you were less than nothing. A puppyish nobody who was only kidding himself, wasting both of your time with the delusion that you could belong in his world, at his side, when in reality, you aren’t even worth the rejection that came so easily to his tongue when Perrie asked you were.

You can’t tell Zayn. You can’t tell Niall. You can’t tell anyone. This humiliation is a secret you will have to take to your grave.

You don’t know how long you bury yourself in a nest of blankets on your couch, curled up as small as you can go, crying yourself into a dull headache and an uneasy sleep, thinking about how love is a lie, and Zayn was right the first time, and you will never, never, never make the mistake of trusting anyone like this again.

—

The world has already ended in fiery cataclysm, and yet, there is somehow still sun left to stream light through the living room window when you wake up to a loud series of knocks on the front door. You feel vaguely hungover— eyes puffy from crying, head pounding and mouth sticky with sleep— as you struggle to sit up on the couch. There is a glass of water and some ibuprofen on the coffee table waiting for you— Niall must be home— and indeed, you hear his footsteps approaching the door, clearly taking pains to be quiet when he opens the door.

“Is Harry here?” Louis asks. Louis, the beginning and the end of apocalypse, tone so blithely polite. “He, er— he probably told you, but he dropped by set today, and—”

“Listen, mate,” Niall says in a low voice, “When I got back from work, I found him totally wrecked on the couch, blubbering in his sleep. And he hasn’t woken up yet, so I don’t know what happened, but I’m guessing it wasn’t good, so you should probably go—”

“Is he okay?” Louis sounds genuinely alarmed. “I barely even got a chance to talk to him. I let him onto set this morning, and then I had to shoot my last scenes, so I’d asked him to wait for me— but when I finished, I went looking for him, and he was gone.”

“Like I said, Louis, I don’t know what went down, but what I do know is how he looks like when he’s fucked-up over someone, and—”

“Louis.” You emerge from the living room into the entrance, moving slowly and dreamlike towards him, rubbing the exhaustion out of your eyes. Niall, at once, flies to your side, a steadying arm around your shoulders.

“Haz, go upstairs, I’ll be up in just a second and then we can talk—”

“Louis, what are you doing here?” you ask, softly, because there is no longer any strength inside you to be angry.

He is standing, stricken, in your doorway, that same vulnerable look in his eye as earlier— as though he has any right to be vulnerable in front of you now. He’s out of costume and back in the present day, small in navy blue sweatpants and a plain white t-shirt— a brown paper gift bag in his hands, bizarrely enough. You can see his grip on it tighten, as he takes in the sight of you.

“I’m sorry if I’m overstepping, but— but you came to see me, and then you left, and I didn’t— Harry, what did I do?”

Niall lets go of your shoulders so that he can look you squarely in the face, glancing from Louis to you and back, clearly trying to ascertain whether to intervene or let this play out. You cross your arms over your chest— defensively, protectively— and feel yourself exhale like a mournful sigh.

“Nialler, I think the two of us need to talk,” you tell him. “I, um. I’ll let you know if I need anything. And thanks for the ibuprofen.”

“No problem at all,” Niall says, though still visibly worried. “I’ll— be upstairs.”

He moves between you, past you, into the kitchen and up the stairs, the sound of his footfalls overstated in the thick, fraught silence of the entryway. Once Niall’s door closes above your heads, Louis steps into the entrance, shuts the front door behind him. You gesture to the kitchen, and he follows you to the table, which you clear away dishes and books so that you can see each other without obstruction. It doesn’t feel real, the sunset still a couple of hours away, your sense of time and order jumbled like the contents of a shaken jar while Louis, beautiful and apprehensive, occupies your kitchen for a third time. You close your eyes for a moment, let them open again— and there he sits, not a mirage but a man, waiting. For you.

“What is that?” you ask, pointing at the bag.

“Oh. This.” His chuckle is humorless, as he sets the bag on the table beside him. “I…it’s so embarrassing now, but, I’d found it months ago, not long after I got outed, and…it made me think of you. So I bought it, and kept it with me all this time…I didn’t think I’d ever get to give it to you. But then you came today, and I thought— hoped—” He shakes his head, eyes averted down to his lap, the fan of his eyelashes so hatefully delicate. “Anyway. I brought it for you.”

“Should I open it?” you ask, eyeing it with wary curiosity.

“God, no,” Louis says. “Not while I’m here. It’s just…Harry, will you please tell me what’s going on?”

“I wish I knew.” Pressure builds up behind your eyes, as you struggle to look at him, every detail of the face you have ached for without respite. “Zayn and Gemma both told me— warned me, not to get involved in this again—” You inhale sharply. “I heard you today on set, Louis. Talking to Perrie, or whoever she was. Your manager gave me headphones. I heard everything.”

And yet, Louis’s expression is mystified. “Heard what?”

“Everything! What you said to her. About me.” And, when the confused frown between his brow only deepens— “You told her I was nobody! Someone you knew once, who was embarrassing, and you didn’t want to be rude!”

The words come out like a flood laced with bits of blood and marrow, wrenching out every ounce of remaining wherewithal you still possess— you, tortured and torn wide open in front of him— and only now, in the raw, ringing chasm between you, does understanding begin to dawn on him.

“Oh, _that?_ Is that what made you leave?” His eyes are just the slightest bit shiny in this light.

“I heard you, I heard every word—” you repeat stubbornly, but he shakes his head, shakes it hard and insistent.

“Harry, sweetheart— Perrie Edwards is the nosiest, most loud-mouthed and indiscreet actress to have ever existed in this industry, in the U.S. or anywhere,” he tells you. “She plays Caroline Bingley in the movie, and let me tell you, it was a casting made in heaven, because— didn’t you hear her bitching about Lily James? Why would I ever trust a person like that with something as private and as complicated as what you mean to me?”

For the second time today, your heart shatters all the way through you. “So you don’t— you didn’t—”

“What I told Perrie was the farthest thing from the truth,” Louis tells you, voice a little wet now, his lip trembling. “It killed me that she asked at all, like she was trying to collect gossip about me to spread around later. Like I haven’t had enough leaky faucets around me for a damn lifetime. I just— I needed to get her off my back. I was trying to protect us both. You could never be nobody. Not even if you tried. _Harry.”_

You bury your face in your hands, the tears coming for real now, long-held over an exhausting day— but then you hear the scrape of the chair, feel Louis’s hands gently gather yours so that he can see your face, and you can see his. His smile is watery, but his palms cradle your quivering hands with such care, steadier than you expected.

“I am so sorry you misunderstood, that you spent even a second believing you were less than you are,” he says, tersely, sincerely. “And I am so sorry that this is the way my life is. You are the last person I would ever want to hurt, and now I’ve done it again, and I— I don’t know how to tell you how sorry I am.”

It takes a minute for you to process this, to imagine that such a thing, which cut you to your core, could have been uttered in defense of you. That, yet again, the two of you find yourselves at the crossroads of misunderstanding, when what you've wanted all along has been so simple. You wipe your eyes with a tissue until your breathing slows back to normal rhythm, and decide to just come out and ask him the question that's been on your mind since October.

“Do you know— Did you ever find out, what brought the paparazzi to Notting Hill, that morning? Who betrayed you?”

“It was Simon,” Louis tells you, so bloodlessly that the words feel like corpses. Old bodies, long grieved and buried. “That’s why I hired Paul, whom you met today. Simon was the one who called every pap and gossip rag he could think of and sent them out way."

“Wait, _Simon?_ But how—?”

“He tracked my phone. When I wouldn’t answer his calls or emails, he got my location, and sent paps here to punish me. Shame me and drum up publicity in one clean stroke.” Louis sighs. “It’s a long, stupid, convoluted story— and I can tell it, if you want to hear it— but. It was Simon. And I finally figured out how to get rid of him. So things are better now.”

“Why would Simon sabotage you like that?” you ask, utterly bemused.

“He had his reasons.” Louis shrugs, though his eyes are pained. “It’s just…it’s this industry. Sometimes it ruins people.”

“So why did you do it?” you ask, taking your hands back so you can wipe your eyes. “Why did you even become an actor, Louis? Because from what I can tell, your career is the thing that is making you miserable.”

“I chose it because I was poor,” Louis says simply, wiping his eyes too. “I’d always been poor, and I wasn’t great at school, and I didn’t know what I was supposed to do with my life. I was waiting tables and doing odd jobs when I booked my first real gig, and— and suddenly, people knew who I was, and I had enough money to take care of my family for the rest of our lives.”

“So then why did you stay?”

His eyes are so blue as he considers this, breaths shallow and shuddering. “You know— no one’s ever asked me that question before?”

“Maybe someone should have,” you say.

He mulls it over, but not for very long. “You know, I think that at first, it was fun to be someone I wasn’t. Like an escape hatch, almost, where I could inhabit someone whose story and whose future had already been set and written down. But more recently, I’ve found that…that maybe now I want to be someone that I _am_. Except, at this point it’s become my career, the only thing I’ve been trained to do since I was nineteen years old.” His smile turns brittle, almost wry. “And I don’t think I’m as brave as you are, Harry. To leave behind something that hurts me.”

“What do you mean?”

“You left Nick,” Louis says. “The man you were with for so much of your adult life, and you broke up with him, and got your life back. Enough was finally— enough. Believe it or not, I’ve given that a lot of thought since Aaron…happened. How you created a different path for yourself, and it worked out so well for you.”

“I didn’t do it alone,” you say. “It was only possible because I had Niall, and Zayn, and Liam, and my sister, and our other friends. They were the ones who made me brave.”

“Well. I don't have that kind of trusted circle, not the way you do, but— like I said, I've been thinking a lot about my next steps, professionally. Because things have been going well enough—”

“You won an Oscar, Louis.”

“Yeah.” His smile is hollow, though. “It's, um. It's really cool, in certain ways. Everyone dreams of winning one of those, including me. But it's also not the only thing that matters to me. I just finished wrapping this movie today, and while I'm going to have promotion obligations for it down the line, I'm not firmly committed to another project right now. Paul, bless him, hasn't pushed me too hard in any direction. I've thought about taking a hiatus for a little while, then try my hand at producing, maybe even directing. More behind-the-scenes stuff, where I'll have more longevity and fewer cameras in my face.”

“I think you would be really good at that,” you say quietly. “I think you’d be good at anything you tried.”

“I’m supposed to fly to New York late tonight,” Louis says, running a hand through his messy hair. “In about four hours, actually. But— but before I do that, I need to ask you, if…if I didn’t have to go tonight, if I could see you, a little. Or a lot, maybe. Do it right this time, you and me. See if I could earn your trust back, if you’d let me.”

He blinks up at you with such pathos that it sends a ripple through your stomach, like you skipped a step going downstairs. You are almost at a loss, staring back at him with a storm of mingled relief and profound fear ripping through your body, these two strong instincts you have— to leap, and to retreat— clashing with each other like two bolts of lightning.

“Are you asking if I’ll—”

“Date me,” Louis finishes, cheeks flushed pink. “Yes, that’s what I’m asking.”

“In— in public?”

“We can talk about that,” he says quickly. “We don’t have to, certainly not right away, but…I also don’t want to hide. I’ve spent a long time hiding. And while I don’t want to, like, make our private life everyone’s business, I also wouldn’t want our relationship to be a secret. Because I— I think I’m in love with you, Harry, and I don’t care anymore who sees, or what they think.”

This pronouncement— delivered so earnestly, tremulously, that it sets the open waters of your soul on fire— should thrill you. It should send you running into his waiting arms, where he would hold you like he held you the one night you spent together, his touch tender and practically imbued with magic. It should be everything you’ve wished and yearned for, these long, strange months in and out of each other’s lives.

But…it doesn’t.

You are sitting here in your kitchen table— the place you were happy, the place where he broke you— and the sinking sun is gentle on your aching shoulders, and the only thing you can conjure is pure exhaustion. You look up at him, his face— Louis, who is also Louis Tomlinson, staggeringly lovely and also recognizable to millions around the world— and you feel your inhale like a knife to both your hearts.

“Thing is, I— I don’t think that is such a good idea,” you say, watching as the words land like underground grenades beneath his skin. “I— I think that you are _you_ , and I’m only me, and— and logistically, just…that’s not a good fit. You, traveling all the time, seeing the world, everyone adoring you everywhere you go— and rightfully so— and me…well. I would probably get left behind in all that, wouldn’t I?”

You feel yourself wince along with him, each difficult word like a hard round stone on the table between you. But they have to be said, all of them— you, trying to do what is right for you, for once. Letting the gates creak closed, to a heart too tender for the tumult he has so often embodied.

“There are just so many pictures of you,” you tell him, queasy in the stomach as the truth leaves its cruel aftertaste in your throat. “Millions of them on Google images, you know that? Millions of pictures, millions of people, millions of dollars at stake, and that kind of scale is— incomprehensible, to someone who is only…one. I’d get swallowed whole.”

“That’s a real no, then, huh,” Louis says, a painful attempt at flippancy that falls desperately flat.

“I have to look out for myself, don’t I?” You bite your lip with such terrible sadness. “Because if shit goes sideways, and you leave, as I would absolutely understand if you did, then I'd— well, I’d quite buggered, right? It's already been really hard, this year.”

“I know,” he sighs. “I know it’s been…impossible. I’m sorry for that. And— and I respect your decision. I do. I’ll, um. I’ll fly to New York tonight, then, and I’ll be out of your hair, then.”

He leans forward, as though he is about to stand up, but then he doesn’t. “Can I say one more thing, before I go?”

You swallow thickly, tears already pricking at your eyelids. “Yes. Of course.”

“The fame thing— it isn’t really real, you know?” His smile is devastation, like porcelain cracked dead center. “I mean, it’s real in the sense that it has consequences, serious ones, but— but at the end of the day, don’t forget, I’m still…I’m just a guy. Standing in front of this extraordinary man…hoping to be loved by him.”

Your heart, in tatters: “Lou—”

“I know I’ve hurt you, Harry. I know I’ve made mistakes. But you must know— you were the last thing I ever expected to fall into my life. So good, and steady, and grounded, and _normal_. You don’t know how rare you are, in Hollywood or outside of it. Your life here— your friends, your bookstore, this house— thank you for letting me in, for a little while. I wish you all the best.”

Now he stands for real, tall in his resolve and his grace. You stand as well, ribs crumbling in on themselves as he leans into you, presses a tentative kiss to your cheek. His smile is salt and honey, as you walk him back to the entrance of the house— the first place he kissed you, back when you were strangers. Before you knew you’d end up here, cheek pressed against the frame of the doorway, watching his retreating back down the front path and into the street, the sunset in front of him, until you can’t see him anymore.

You wait until the door is closed, and Niall has arrived downstairs with tears in his eyes too, before you finally let yourself fall apart in earnest.

—

Within half an hour, Zayn and Liam and Gemma have descended upon you, Liam armed with a container of eggless cookie dough and apologies that it was all he could whip up on short notice. They arrange themselves around the living room, letting you cling to the container of cookie dough like a life raft while you haltingly, painstakingly tell them the story again, every detail, from the moment you entered Hampstead Heath to the moment you let him walk out of your life for good.

It takes awhile, pausing to cry, or give more details as they come to you. But when you finish— when it’s finally out of you in its entirety— a hush falls over your stricken, spellbound audience. Zayn is inscrutable, mouth pursed, his usually expressive doe eyes blank and lost in thought. Liam looks like a soaked kitten, brown eyes wide and tragic. Niall is holding a pillow in his lap, looking upset as he clutches it to his stomach. Gemma is leaning forward with her elbows resting on her knees, expression solemn. It’s a long time before any of them can think of something important enough to say to break the silence.

“So…he insinuated that he might quit acting,” Gemma confirms, sitting back against the sofa. “And that he wanted to go out with you for real this time.”

“Yeah,” you say, averting your eyes. “Yeah, he did.”

“And…you said no,” says Liam.

“That’s right.”

Liam nods, perhaps more vigorously than the situation calls for, but his frown runs deeply. You notice that his grip on Zayn’s hand tightens.

“I— I had to, it was the sensible thing to do,” you insist, tone wild with anguish. “You lot were all saying it at dinner that night, that our lives were too different, and it was too complicated, and I’d be the one who got hurt. And Nialler, you told me to do what I had to do for myself. Didn’t you?”

“I did,” Niall says. But his voice is hollow. “You know yourself, Hazza. It’s always been your decision. And…and it was the sensible one to make.”

“So then why do you all look like this?” you ask, panic rising in your chest. “Why are you all looking at me like I did something wrong?”

“You didn’t!” Zayn says with unconvincing confidence. “You didn’t, of course. It’s just that— that the situation is different now, from before? Because before, it was more ambiguous, and now, he— he, er— he said he loved you, right?”

“Yeah…yeah, he did,” you say, a lump rising in your throat.

“Didn’t he bring you something, too?” Niall asks. “I saw him with that gift bag when he came in.”

“Shit, you’re right.”

In the melee of the evening, you’d completely forgotten about that bag. You scurry into the kitchen to fetch it, bring it back to the living room and toss all the paper to the ground with shaking fingers.

It turns out to be— a book.

It’s a hardcover, wrapped in protective plastic. A dark blue, embossed with gold— a peacock with an infinite tail fanning off the cover’s edges. _Pride and Prejudice_ , by Jane Austen. The lump in your throat only grows.

“That’s…that’s not a first edition, is it,” Zayn says breathlessly, reaching his hand out for it.

You give him the book, and he carefully negotiates the plastic off it, checks the binding and inside cover. “Holy shit, Hazza, this is the 1894 first edition of _Pride and Prejudice_ , for real. And— what’s this here—”

A scrap of paper flutters out of the book, its edges jagged, as though it were ripped out of a notepad. On it is a brief note, scrawled in blue ink— unfamiliar, and yet, all too familiar.

 _Dear Harry, always in my heart. Yours sincerely, Louis_.

You blanch, the shock of it such that you drop both the book and the note a short distance to the carpet, suddenly nauseous with regret.

“Shit bugger bugger mother fuck, I’ve gone and made the wrong choice, haven’t I,” you groan, burying your face into your hands, trying to stem the fresh flow of tears already threatening to pour down your wet cheeks.

“Oh, Hazza.” Gemma swoops in, picks up the book and the note and hugs you tightly. “I know what Zayn and I said when we last discussed this— and I stand by all of it, you have to be careful, you have to think these things all the way through, but—”

“But he’s in love with you,” Zayn says, the tenderness back in his eyes. “And you’re in love with him.”

“I _told_ you,” Liam blusters, wiping his eyes too. “I _told_ you not to be such a pessimist, Z—”

“How was I supposed to know it would come down to this?!” Zayn asks indignantly. “I thought we had to prepare for the worst, thought Louis would have been long gone by now—”

“And he might still be, if we don’t hurry,” Niall says, clamoring to his feet and glancing down at his watch. “We have— what, an hour and a half, to get to Heathrow?”

“We’ll never make it in this traffic,” Liam says.

“Certainly not if _you_ drive,” Zayn retorts. “But if Niall or I take the wheel—”

“I’ll do it,” Niall volunteers.

“Shall I go home and get the van?” Zayn asks.

“Yes— wait, no, we don’t have it,” says Liam.

“Why the fuck not?!”

“Karlie had that thing today— she borrowed it last night, and she was supposed to give it back this afternoon, but I haven’t had the time—”

“I’ll call her,” Gemma says, pulling out her phone. “The rest of you, get Hazza ready, go get his passport in case he misses Louis’s plane and has to fly to New York himself—”

“My passport is in my bottom dresser drawer,” you start, but Niall is already racing towards the stairs, while Zayn rushes behind him to fetch you a new shirt, and Liam attacks your hair with a comb from Gemma’s purse, pops a stick of Winterfresh gum into your mouth for good measure. Gemma finally gets on the line with Karlie, says it’s an emergency and she needs the van now, but then has to call Taylor because Taylor is the one at home with it. By the time Gemma has managed to lasso them both into the plan, Niall brings the passport, and Zayn a pair of jeans and your green button-down, which he supervises you putting on.

With all their combined efforts, Taylor and Karlie and the van arrive just as you finish grooming, and you all climb in, Zayn helping Liam into the right spot and the two of them shouting directions at Niall, who speeds out of the neighborhood like a born taxi-driver, ready to get on the highway and speed as fast as traffic allows.

“Okay, now that we’re on the road, can someone please tell me what the _fuck_ is going on?” Karlie asks, squished against Taylor in the seat next to the door.

“It’s a long story,” you say, “but—”

“But Harry needs to get to Heathrow to stop the love of his life from getting on a plane to New York,” Liam explains.

“So you _did_ talk to Louis.” Taylor looks pleased. “But then, why the Ross-and-Rachel airport rush? Why would he leave?”

“Because Harry told him no the first time,” says Zayn. “And now we’re trying to fix it.”

“ _Harry_!” Karlie manages to swat the top of your head with irritation. “Why do you ever listen to Zayn or Gemma?”

“I was only trying to be sensible!” you yelp, gingerly rubbing the top of your head.

“Well, there's your first problem!” Taylor says, smacking the top of your head as well for good measure. “Love isn’t about being _sensible,_ which is usually code for playing it way too safe. Obviously, you don’t want to jump into anything crazy too quickly, but— love is risk. Love is sometimes pain. But mostly, love is about trying. Even if it ends eventually— if you know how you feel, and you know how they feel, you can’t not give it your best while you can.”

“God, where were you two hours ago?” you say, half-laughing, half-sobbing. “Nialler, you don’t think you could possibly go any faster, could you?”

The car obediently lurches forward.

—

“How do we get in to see him at his gate?” asks Gemma, troublingly practical as the airport looms closer. “We wouldn’t even be able to get through security without a boarding pass, and I’m sure the hangar for his private jet will be difficult to access!”

“Fucking hell,” shouts Niall. “Hazza, can you call him? Have him come out to you?”

“He might not answer if it’s me,” you say. “But I think I might have something else.”

In your wallet is the business card from Louis’s manager, Paul. You let Taylor read out the numbers for you as you input them to your phone, listen to it ring while crossing all your fingers, all your toes.”

“Hey, Paul? It's Harry Styles, I visited set earlier today, and I was wondering if you could help me out with something urgent…”

—

By some singular act of God Himself— aided by Niall’s spectacularly reckless weaving through the M4— the van screeches to a stop at Heathrow Airport, where you, Gemma, Niall, Taylor, and Karlie hop out of the vehicle, and Zayn moves to the front seat. “Liam and I’ll get parking, you lot find Louis,” he yells as he drives away, the five of you running into the airport proper.

“Paul said he’d meet us by the security line,” you say. “And— yes, there he is!”

“We have to hurry,” Paul says by way of greeting, leading everyone straight past the security guards and towards the left side of the airport. “Louis was adamant he leave London as soon as possible, and I’ve fought with the pilot to keep the plane grounded for the last half hour. Louis’s rather upset about it, I’m afraid.”

“That’s why we’re here,” Niall says brightly. “Don’t worry, once Harry’s had his say, everything will be fine.”

“I hope so,” Paul says, turning a corner. “The Heathrow staff hasn’t been thrilled either; they’re on a schedule, after all. I’m going to have to send them some signed merchandise to smooth things over.”

You feel your cheeks go pink as you follow Paul through a set of twisting private passages, which ultimately lead you outside to the hanger for private travel, where a smaller fleet of planes is parked in the summer night air. The breeze is warm and welcome after the stark air conditioning of the airport, but you are focused solely on the mission at hand. “Which one is Louis’s?”

“There, the third one,” Paul says, squinting in the wind as he points it out. “Come on, let’s go.”

“Hey, wait just a tick there!” A Heathrow staff member comes jogging, red-faced, up to you and Paul. “You two going to the one headed to New York? That’s only a four-passenger aircraft, mates, and there were already four people scheduled to be on it, you can’t add someone else!”

“We can’t?” you ask, crestfallen.

“Don’t worry,” Paul assures you. “I’ll catch another flight to New York; you take my spot, go on. You have your passport, don’t you?”

Niall pulls it out of his jacket pocket and thrusts it in your hand. “There. Now get on that plane, Hazza!”

“We’ll wait here for you, just in case!” Gemma calls out.

“Good luck!” Taylor and Karlie chorus, the two of them and Niall and Gemma hanging back now as you and Paul tear off towards the plane alone, you waving your passport wildly in thanks as you go. When you and Paul come close enough, someone must flip a switch, because the stairs are lowered for your benefit, you panting heavily as you wait for them to stabilize.

“Thanks for everything, Paul,” you say, giving him a rough one-armed hug. “You really saved the day here.”

“He did his best takes on set today, trying to finish fast enough to see you,” Paul confesses, his smile kind. “Go on, then.”

Your heart full, you rush up the steps without looking back, shove your passport into the hands of the hostess who pops out to welcome you to the aircraft. At once, you hear Louis’s voice: “Fucking finally, Paul, is that you? You’ve been acting so weird, and we’ve been sitting around forever, can we just—”

But he trails off, when it’s you who comes crashing into the body of the plane, curls windblown and disheveled, standing up in every direction as you take in the sight of him, sitting there in a sweatshirt with his hood over his head, expression akin to being slapped across the face.

 _“Louis.”_ You struggle to catch your breath after your mad dash, a stitch sharp in your side but your mind otherwise exhilarated, a potent rush of relief like Christmas lights in your veins. “Lou, please— please don’t go.”

He seems to shrink in his seat, dumbfounded and a little awe-struck. “Harry, I— I thought you—”

“I’m a daft prick!” you announce, throwing up your arms and letting them fall back to your thighs with a firm smack. “I was wrong. I was— I was scared, is what I was. Scared because you meant so much to me so fast, and it just. It took me some time to catch up.”

“I have to be in New York,” Louis says faintly. He hasn’t risen from his seat, still strapped safely into his seatbelt, the lip of his hood hovering right over his eyes. “I have— I have to see my family. My mom. She’s making Heartbreak Soup.”

“What’s that?”

“She’s made it for my sisters and I since we were kids.” Louis still can’t seem to believe he’s really explaining this to you. “It’s chicken noodle soup, but she seasons the chicken with cayenne and red pepper. For a little kick, you know, to get us through whatever we’re going through.”

“I have my passport,” you say, gesturing to the stunned hostess, who has taken refuge by the door to the pilot’s pit. “I, um. I could go with you to New York, if that’s okay. Paul’s already volunteered me his seat. That’s why he was being so weird; I called him, trying to stop your plane from leaving before I could see you. But, um, I could also just— you know, get off this plane, go back home with my sister and my friends, eat a sleeve of Oreos and forget I ever tried anything so insane and presumptive— like this is some kind of romance film where you still want me, even after I said no and let you down—”

“No,” Louis bursts out. “No, don’t— don’t do that last thing.”

“I could eat the cookie dough Liam made me instead of Oreos,” you offer.

A smile flickers on Louis’s face, the color back in his features. “No, no. I meant the thing about getting off the plane and forgetting all about this.”

“Thank god,” you say with a delirious laugh. “I’ve done a lot of running tonight, so I’m glad it wasn’t in vain. Reckon I’m done with exercise for the rest of the year now, actually.”

“Come sit down,” Louis says, patting the window seat beside him, still staring at you in wonder as you climb over him and into the spot. “Can I ask…what on earth changed your mind?”

“It was the note in the book,” you say, a little breathless with the proximity of him, so solid and whole and alive beside you, eyes lined with pink but his smile more brilliant than the blinding hangar lights. “‘Always in my heart.’ Because…I realized then that no matter what happened, you’d be in mine too. So, at that point, it just made more sense to— be with you in person. To try with you, for real. Even if I’m still a bit scared of what it means.”

His eyes sparkle like an ocean at dawn, a tentative hand anchoring on your jaw, his thumb pressing so gently to the corner of your mouth. “It’s okay if you’re scared. I’m fairly terrified myself. I’ve never…done this before. The romantic gestures. The romantic anything.”

You nuzzle your cheek into his palm, feel him shudder with the tenderness of it. “Well, we have a long flight ahead of us. Plenty of time to talk about it. Plan the details and logistics and all."

He has never been more beautiful, in film or on camera or otherwise, than he is right now, slowly coming to terms with the fact that you are here, and your breathing is normalizing, and you aren’t going to leave again, and neither is he.

“I’d like that,” he says, as he finally closes the distance between your mouth and his.

The surrender is sweet on his tongue, as you reacquaint with the warmth and the pressure of each other’s lips. He tastes like solace, like desire— like promise, the dawn of something new breaking behind you, casting you both in shadows of gold and orange. Louis fumbles with the armrest between you, pushes it up with his elbow and wriggles into your lap, kisses you soundly with both hands holding your face in place. And as the stairs are finally raised to the underside of the plane, as the pilot prepares for takeoff, as the crew likely exchanges embarrassed grins at your complete lack of attention to anyone or anything beyond your happy bubble, Louis at last breaks the kiss with a contented sigh, resting his face on your shoulder, his hair tickling the line of your jaw.

“I do love you, you know,” he murmurs into your neck, soft as birdtalk, while the engine roars to life around you. “I only qualified it before because I thought it might freak you out.”

“And it only freaked me out because I feel the same,” you say, with a kiss to his forehead. “But— you know, I think you should probably sit in your own seat with your seatbelt now, while we take off. Don’t want the plane jostling you around and giving you a concussion so that our first official couple date is in a hospital instead of a hotel room.”

“Mmm, I’m not worried,” Louis says, pulling your arm tighter around his middle, his own arms happily looped around your neck like a koala. “You’re wearing yours, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Good. Then we’ll just hold onto each other.”

And you do, the whole seven hours back to New York City.

—

Niall: _wish we had a mission accomplished banner when the stairs went up !! right on mate, glad u got ur man x_

Taylor: _YOU GOT ON THE PLANE YAAAYYYYYYYYYYYY_

Karlie: _love you both, safe travels!!!!!!_

Gemma: _be safe, be good, i love you, let me know when you land ok?_

Liam: _take care hazza, talk soon_

Zayn: _i can’t believe you reverse-rachel’d onto the plane and i wasn’t there to see it_

Zayn: _i’m sure you'll be too busy ahem, catching up_ , _but seriously, call one of us some time in the next twenty-four hours so we know you’re alive and louis hasn’t orgasm-ed you to death_.

Zayn: _love you xxxxx_

—

You spend one week in New York City together, three days of which are passed at Louis’s mother’s house, with the gaggle of curious, nosy sisters and the adorable baby twins and the obscene amount of food his mom and stepdad cook up upon your arrival. Louis is in his element at home, chasing the younger ones around and pulling rank on what to watch on Netflix and dutifully painting Fizzy’s nails while she subjects you to an inquisition about your worthiness to date her older brother. You answer all her questions and everyone else’s, talk until your throat goes sore, eating seconds and thirds of everything; and best of all, you learn what it is to fall asleep and then wake up again in Louis’s arms, your bodies spooned together like puzzle pieces fitting into place. And now that you've gotten a taste of it, a quiet morning fumble before going downstairs to eat breakfast side by side and colliding ankles under the table, you're not sure you'll ever go back to living alone.

The rest of your time is spent holed up in Louis’s sunny apartment in Chelsea, FaceTiming with Zayn and Gemma and Niall to fill them in on recent events, munching on the care packages Jay sent and ordering pizza, and discussing your various ideas for the future in between uninterrupted kisses and orgasms. You barely leave Louis’s heavenly mattress when you’re in Chelsea, helping Louis decide on a timetable for the next couple years of his career while also feeding him leftover pizza, and kissing the sauce off the corner of his mouth. It is only with great reluctance that, after five days of perfect bliss, you book your ticket back to London— and the only reason you manage it at all is that Louis books one with you, and flies back to the city at your side. It’s almost unbelievable, one week later, to imagine that you nearly passed this up, nearly let Louis fly to New York without you when, with him at your side, any place has already begun to feel like home.

While in London, Louis decides to take a hiatus from acting for the next four months, dedicating that time to moving into the house with the blue door, and establishing a solid foundation for your relationship. Louis’s presence in your bedroom forces Niall into an existential crisis about his living arrangements— because Louis is quite loud during sex, inspires you to similar heights in the throes of climax, and sound carries in this house— but, ultimately, buys some noise-canceling headphones while starting up an apartment hunt for another roommate in or near Notting Hill. He finds one two months later, a young medical resident who is barely home and therefore rarely complains about the mess Niall seems to make wherever he goes, and the arrangement suits him quite well. You and Louis get Niall’s old room thoroughly and professionally cleaned, and then keep it on as a spare room, where your sister and your friends often stay after getting too tipsy at one of the many dinner parties you both love to host.

Living together necessarily creates some day-to-day friction, as you work out what it means to share space, especially so early in your relationship— but for the most part, you fit well and naturally together. Louis is no messier than Niall, and loves dragging you out of the house in the evenings to have adventures— picnics by the Thames, long winding walks through the city, sampling every ice-cream selling establishment in train or walking distance during the summer heat. Sometimes he visits you at work and startles customers by saying _he_ recognizes _them_ from somewhere. Sometimes you come home with flowers, bright and colorful in a vase on your kitchen table. Your shared kitchen table.

Louis tries more than once to buy off the rest of your mortgage on the house, but it takes you about a year to eventually relent, to let the house truly become both of your investment rather than only yours. It ends up being his engagement gift to you, when you agree on top of the Eiffel Tower during a weekend in Paris to get married, roughly fifteen months after you chased down his plane at Heathrow Airport. Louis loves telling that story— at your engagement celebration, and at the wedding itself, on New Year’s Day in Hampstead Heath, eyes crinkly and fond as he recalls his shock at seeing you bursting into the cabin when he’d all but given up hope.

“Hey, remember that night when you almost let me fly to New York thinking you didn’t love me back,” Louis likes to tease sometimes, when he’s folding laundry, or watching you cook breakfast with his chin on your shoulder, or FaceTiming you from across the world when he has to travel for a project.

And you always answer— when you’re thirty years old shelving books in the store, when you’re thirty-four and tending to the twins you've adopted together, when you’re fifty and flying to L.A. because the film Louis directed is up for five Oscar nominations— “No, obviously. Because it lasted no more than three hours out of the whole life I’m spending hitched to your side, so if you could wipe that smirk off your face already, we can get on with it.”

And he grins like every time is the first time you’ve made this quip, the love and mischief in his eyes evergreen as he presents himself for a kiss, and you faux-exasperatedly oblige.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I am @avengerlexa on Tumblr, feel free to come say hello!


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